_Don Car._ Rouse, my soul! consider now That to thy blissful mansion thou must go. But I so mighty joys have tasted here, I hardly shall have sense of any there: Oh, soft as blossoms, and yet sweeter far! [_Leaning on her bosom._ Sweeter than incense which to Heaven ascends, Though 'tis presented there by angels' hands. _King._ Still in his arms! Cowards, go tear her forth! _Don Car._ You'll sooner from its centre shake the earth: I'll hold her fast till my last hour is nigh; Then I'll bequeath her to you when I die. _King._ Cut off his hold! or any thing-- _Don Car._ Ay, come; Here kill, and bear me hence into my tomb. I'd have my monument erected here, With broken mangled limbs still clasping her. _Queen._ Hold, and I'll quit his arms-- [_The_ Guards _offer their axes. They part._ _King._ Now bear him hence. _Queen._ O horrid tyrant! [Guards _are hurrying_ Don CARLOS _off_. Stay, unhappy prince-- Turn, turn! O torment! must I leave you so? No, stay, and take me with you where you go. _Don Car._ Hark, slaves, my goddess summons me to stay. Dogs! have you eyes, and can you disobey? See her! Oh, let me but just touch my bliss. [_Pressing forward._ _King._ By hell! he shan't. Slaves, are ye mine or his? _Queen._ My life-- _Don Car._ My soul, farewell! [_Exeunt_ Guards _with_ Don CARLOS. _Queen._ He's gone, he's gone! Now, tyrant, to thy rage I'm left alone; Give me my death, that hate both life and thee. _King._ I know thou dost; yet live. _Queen._ O misery! [_Throws herself down._ Why was I born to be thus cursed? or why Should life be forced, when 'tis so sweet to die? _King_ [_To_ D. of EBOLI]. Thou, woman, hast been false; but, to renew Thy credit in my heart, assist me now. Prepare a draught of poison, such as will Act slow, and by degrees of torment kill. Give it the queen, and, to prevent all sense Of dying, tell her I've released the prince, And that ere morning he'll attend her. I In a disguise his presence will supply; So glut my rage, and smiling see her die. _D. of Eboli._ Your majesty shall be obeyed. _Ruy-Gom._ Do, work thy mischiefs to their last degree, And when they're in their height I'll murder thee. [_Aside._ _King._ Now, Gomez, ply my rage and keep it hot: O'er love and nature I've the conquest got. Still charming beauty triumphs in her eyes: [_Looking at the_ QUEEN. Yet for my honour and my rest she dies. [_Exeunt_ QUEEN _and_ Women. But, oh! what ease can I expect to get, When I must purchase at so dear a rate? [_Exeunt._ FOOTNOTES: