_
_Emp._ What news of our affairs, and what of Dorax?
Is he no more? say that, and make me happy.
_Bend._ May all your enemies be like that dog,
Whose parting soul is labouring at the lips.
_Emp._ The people, are they raised?
_Bend._ And marshalled too;
Just ready for the march.
_Emp._ Then I'm at ease.
_Bend._ The night is yours; the glittering host of heaven
Shines but for you; but most the star of love,
That twinkles you to fair Almeyda's bed.
Oh, there's a joy to melt in her embrace,
Dissolve in pleasure,
And make the gods curse immortality,
That so they could not die.
But haste, and make them yours.
_Emp._ I will; and yet
A kind of weight hangs heavy at my heart;
My flagging soul flies under her own pitch,
Like fowl in air too damp, and lugs along,
As if she were a body in a body,
And not a mounting substance made of fire.
My senses, too, are dull and stupified,
Their edge rebated:--sure some ill approaches,
And some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul,
To tell me, fate's at hand[6].
_Bend._ Mere fancies all.
Your soul has been before-hand with your body,
And drunk so deep a draught of promised bliss,
She slumbers o'er the cup; no danger's near,
But of a surfeit at too full a feast.
_Emp._ It may be so; it looks so like the dream
That overtook me, at my waking hour,
This morn; and dreams, they say, are then divine,
When all the balmy vapours are exhaled,
And some o'erpowering god continues sleep.
Pages:
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439