_Cæsa._ Oh! how lovely Those eyes can make e'en scorn! yet calm their lightnings-- Once more let love.--
_Amel._ Never--the hours are past When I believed thee all my fond heart wished; Thought thee the best, the kindest, truest----thought thee---- Oh! Heaven! no Eastern tale portrays the palace Of fay, or wizard (where in bright confusion Blaze gold and gems) so glorious fair, as seemed, Tricked in the rainbow-colours of my fancy, Cæsario's form this morn:----Too late I know thee; The spell is broke; and where an Houri smiled, Now scowls a fiend. Oh! thus benighted pilgrims Admire the glow-worm's light, while gloom prevails But find that seeming lamp of fiery lustre A poor dark worthless worm, when viewed in sunshine. Away, and seek Ottilia.
_Cæsa._ Oh! my princess, Deep as thy anger wounds my heart, more deeply I grieve to think, how thine will bleed at finding This anger undeserved.
_Amel._ Oh! that it were _so_, But no! I saw my scarf----that very scarf---- My own hands wrought it.----Many a midnight lamp, While thou wert at the wars, in toil I wasted, And made it my sole joy to toil for thee, There was no thread I had not blest! no flower I had not kist a thousand times, and murmured With every kiss a prayer for thy return, And yet thou gav'st this sacred work to buy A wanton's favours.----
_Cæsa._ As this morn I left the palace, She marked my flight.
_Cæsa._ Though unrequited, Her love has long been mine.--She raved; she threatened; She would have vengeance; she would rouse the guards; Alarm the king.----
_Cæsa._ But her silence Bought by that scarf.--
_Amel._ Cæsario, could I trust thee? Were this tale true, could I but think.--
_Amel._ No! at the altar thou hast sworn already Mine were thy hand and heart, and mine forever: If thou canst break this oath, none else will bind thee---- Yet did I wrong thee? art thou true? I fain Would think thee so.----But this fond heart, my husband, Is such a weak sad thing and where it loves, Loves so devoutly----Spare me, dear Cæsario, Such fears in future; let no word, no thought, Cloud thy pure faith, for so my soul dotes on thee, But to suspect thee racks each nerve, and almost Drives my brain mad,--Oh! could'st thou know, Cæsario, How painful 'tis for one who loves like me, To _cease_ to love----Cease, said I?----No, my heart Ceased to esteem, but never ceased to love thee.