The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies. John Keats

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depth of hollow ground.

      Conrad.

      Sister, you have grown sensible and wise,

      Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now,

      I hope, resolv’d between us.

      Auranthe.

      Say, what is ‘t?

      Conrad. You need not be his sexton too: a man

      May carry that with him shall make him die

      Elsewhere, give that to him; pretend the while

      You will tomorrow succumb to his wishes,

      Be what they may, and send him from the Castle

      On some fool’s errand; let his latest groan

      Frighten the wolves!

      Auranthe.

      Alas! he must not die!

      Conrad.

      Would you were both hears’d up in stifling lead!

      Detested

      Auranthe. Conrad, hold! I would not bear

      The little thunder of your fretful tongue,

      Tho; I alone were taken in these toils,

      And you could free me; but remember, sir,

      You live alone in my security:

      So keep your wits at work, for your own sake,

      Not mine, and be more mannerly.

      Conrad.

      Thou wasp!

      If my domains were emptied of these folk,

      And I had thee to starve

      Auranthe. O, marvellous!

      But Conrad, now be gone; the Host is look’d for;

      Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords,

      And, do ye mind, above all things, proclaim

      My sickness, with a brother’s sadden’d eye,

      Condoling with Prince Ludolph. In fit time

      Return to me.

      Conrad.

      I leave you to your thoughts.

      [Exit.

      Auranthe (sola) Down, down, proud temper! down,

      Auranthe’s pride!

      Why do I anger him when I should kneel?

      Conrad! Albert! help! help! What can I do?

      wretched woman! lost, wreck’d, swallow’d up,

      Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown,

      Orbing along the serene firmament

      Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon;

      And thou, bright sceptre! lustrous in my eyes,

      There as the fabled fair Hesperian tree,

      Bearing a fruit more precious! graceful thing.

      Delicate, godlike, magic! must I leave

      Thee to melt in the visionary air,

      Ere, by one grasp, this common hand is made

      Imperial? I do not know the time

      When I have wept for sorrow; but methinks

      I could now sit upon the ground, and shed

      Tears, tears of misery. O, the heavy day!

      How shall I bear my life till Albert comes?

      Ludolph! Erminia! Proofs! O heavy day!

      Bring me some mourning weeds, that I may ‘tire

      Myself, as fits one wailing her own death:

      Cut off these curls, and brand this lilly hand,

      And throw these jewels from my loathing sight,

      Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads,

      A cup of bitter’d water, and a crust,

      I will confess, O holy Abbot How!

      What is this? Auranthe! thou fool, dolt,

      Whimpering idiot! up! up! act and quell!

      I am safe! Coward! why am I in fear?

      Albert! he cannot stickle, chew the cud

      In such a fine extreme, impossible!

      Who knocks? [Goes to the Door, listens, and opens it.

      Enter ALBERT.

      Albert, I have been waiting for you here

      With such an aching heart, such swooning throbs

      On my poor brain, such cruel cruel sorrow,

      That I should claim your pity! Art not well?

      Albert.

      Yes, lady, well.

      Auranthe.

      You look not so, alas!

      But pale, as if you brought some heavy news.

      Albert.

      You know full well what makes me look so pale.

      Auranthe.

      No! Do I? Surely I am still to learn

      Some horror; all I know, this present, is

      I am near hustled to a dangerous gulph,

      Which you can save me from, and therefore safe,

      So trusting in thy love; that should not make

      Thee pale, my Albert.

      Albert.

      It doth make me freeze.

      Auranthe.

      Why should it, love?

      Albert.

      You should not ask me that,

      But make your own heart monitor, and save

      Me the great pain of telling. You must know.

      Auranthe.

      Something has vexed you, Albert. There are times

      When simplest things put on a sombre cast;

      A melancholy mood will haunt a man,

      Until most easy matters take the shape

      Of unachievable tasks; small rivulets

      Then seem impassable.

      Albert.

      Do not cheat yourself

      With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant action,

      Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten ‘d death,

      Can alter my resolve.

      Auranthe.

      You make me tremble;

      Not so much at your threats, as at your voice.

      Untun’d. and harsh, and barren of all love.

      Albert.

      You

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