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THE MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
BENEDICT.
Belike he is:
I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
Belike he is:
I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
COUNTESS.
Nor I knew superstition in the right.
Nor I knew superstition in the right.
BENEDICT.
Madam, I must no longer hear this language.
You do abuse my patience. I have borne,
For your soul's health, and hoping your conversion,
Opinions most deprav'd. It ill beseems
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach ev'n me—I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! my prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentenc'd race—your son is dead!
Madam, I must no longer hear this language.
You do abuse my patience. I have borne,
For your soul's health, and hoping your conversion,
Opinions most deprav'd. It ill beseems
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach ev'n me—I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! my prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentenc'd race—your son is dead!
COUNTESS.
Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has spoken
Words more tremendous than this acted zeal,
This poetry of fond enthusiasm
Can conjure up. It is the still small voice
That breathes conviction. 'Tis that voice has told me,
'Twas my son's birth, not his mortality,[1]
Must drown my soul in woe.—Those tears are shed.
Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has spoken
Words more tremendous than this acted zeal,
This poetry of fond enthusiasm
Can conjure up. It is the still small voice
That breathes conviction. 'Tis that voice has told me,
'Twas my son's birth, not his mortality,[1]
Must drown my soul in woe.—Those tears are shed.
BENEDICT.
Unjust, uncharitable as your words,
Unjust, uncharitable as your words,
- ↑ On the death of the comte de Vermandois, his mother, the duchess de la Valiere, said, Must I weep for his death before I have done weeping for his birth?
I pardon