_Politian_. Speak not--speak not of glory! I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage and I Politian? Do I not love--art thou not beautiful-- What need we more? Ha! glory!--now speak not of it! By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-- By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter-- By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-- There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it under foot. What matters it-- What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonored and forgotten Into the dust--so we descend together. Descend together--and then--and then perchance---- _Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Politian_. And then perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still---- _Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Politian_. And still together--together. _Lalage_. Now Earl of Leicester! Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. _Politian_. Oh, Lalage! (_throwing himself upon his knee_.) And lovest thou _me_? _Lalage_. Hist!--hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure past-- A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-- Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (_walks across and returns_.) I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! _Politian_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom. _Lalage_. Politian! Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy--a land new found-- Miraculously found by one of Genoa-- A thousand leagues within the golden west; A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come? _Politian_. O, wilt thou--wilt thou Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee, And worship thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me? _Lalage_. A deed is to be done-- Castiglione lives! _Politian_. And he shall die! (_exit_.)