_D. of Eboli._ No, madam, he the orders disobeyed; And boldly owns for Flanders he intends, To head the rebels, whom he styles his friends: But, ere he goes, by me does humbly sue That he may take his last farewell of you. _Queen._ Will he then force his destiny at last? Hence quickly to him, Eboli, make haste: Tell him, I beg his purpose he'd delay, Or, if that can't his resolution stay, Say I have sworn not to survive the hour In which I hear that he has left this shore. Tell him, I've gained his pardon of the king; Tell him--to stay him--tell him anything-- _D. of Eboli._ One word from you his duty would restore; And, though you promised ne'er to see him more, Methinks you might upon so just a score. But see, he's here. _Re-enter_ Don CARLOS. _Don Car._ Run out of breath by fate, And persecuted by a father's hate, Wearied with all, I panting hither fly, To lay myself down at your feet, and die. [_Kneels, and kisses the_ QUEEN'S _hands_. _Queen._ O too unhappy Carlos! yet unkind! 'Gainst you what harms have ever I designed, That you should with such violence decree Ungratefully at last to murder me? _Don Car._ Pour all thy curses, Heaven, upon this head, For I've the worst of vengeance merited, That yet I impudently live to hear Myself upbraided of a wrong to her! [_Rises._ Say, has your honour been by me betrayed? Or have I snares to entrap your virtue laid? Tell me; if not, why do you then upbraid? _Queen._ You will not know the afflictions which you give; Was't not my last request that you would live? I by our vows conjured it; but I see, Forgetting them, unmindful too of me, Regardless, your own ruin you design, Though you are sure to purchase it with mine. _Don Car._ I, as you bade me live, obeyed with pride, Though it was harder far than to have died. But loss of liberty my life disdains; These limbs were never made to suffer chains. My father should have singled out some crown, And bidden me go conquer it for my own: He should have seen what Carlos would have done. But to prescribe my freedom, sink me low To base confinement, where no comforts flow, But black despair, that foul tormentor, lies, With all my present load of miseries, Was to my soul too violent a smart, And roused the sleeping lion in my heart. _Queen._ Yet then be kind; your angry father's rage I know the least submission will assuage; You're hot with youth, he's choleric with age. To him, and put a true obedience on; Be humble, and express yourself a son. Carlos, I beg it of you: will you not?