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The REVENGE.
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Life is the Desart, Life the Solitude,
Death joins us to the great Majority:
'Tis to be born to Plato's and to Cæsar;
'Tis to be Great for ever.
'Tis Pleasure, 'tis Ambition then to dye.
Death joins us to the great Majority:
'Tis to be born to Plato's and to Cæsar;
'Tis to be Great for ever.
'Tis Pleasure, 'tis Ambition then to dye.
Zan.I think, my Lord, you talk'd of Death.
Alon.I did.
Zan.I give you Joy, then Leonora's Dead?
Alon.No, Zanga, no, the greatest Guilt is mine,
'Tis mine, who might have mark'd his Midnight Visit,
Who might have mark'd his Tameness to Resign her,
Who might have mark'd her sudden Turn of Love.
These, and a Thousand Tokens more; and yet,
For which the Saints absolve my Soul, did Wed.
'Tis mine, who might have mark'd his Midnight Visit,
Who might have mark'd his Tameness to Resign her,
Who might have mark'd her sudden Turn of Love.
These, and a Thousand Tokens more; and yet,
For which the Saints absolve my Soul, did Wed.
Zan.Where does this tend?
Alon.To shed a Woman's Blood
Would stain my Sword, and make my Wars inglorious;
But just Resentment to my self, bears in it
A Stamp of Greatness above vulgar Minds.
He who, superior to the Checks of Nature,
Dares make his Life the Victim of his Reason,
Does in some sort that Reason deify,
And take a Flight at Heav'n.
Would stain my Sword, and make my Wars inglorious;
But just Resentment to my self, bears in it
A Stamp of Greatness above vulgar Minds.
He who, superior to the Checks of Nature,
Dares make his Life the Victim of his Reason,
Does in some sort that Reason deify,
And take a Flight at Heav'n.
Zan.Alas! My Lord,
'Tis not your Reason, but her Beauty finds
Those Arguments, and throws you on your Sword.
You cannot close an Eye that is so bright,
You cannot strike a Breast that is so soft,
That has Ten Thousand Ecstasies in store
For Carlos———No, my Lord, I mean for you.
'Tis not your Reason, but her Beauty finds
Those Arguments, and throws you on your Sword.
You cannot close an Eye that is so bright,
You cannot strike a Breast that is so soft,
That has Ten Thousand Ecstasies in store
For Carlos———No, my Lord, I mean for you.
Alon.Oh! thro' my Heart, and Marrow! Pr'ythee spare me;
Nor more upbraid the Weakness of thy Lord.
I own, I try'd, I quarrell'd with my Heart,
And pusht it on, and bid it give her Death;
But Oh! her Eyes struck first, and murder'd me.
Nor more upbraid the Weakness of thy Lord.
I own, I try'd, I quarrell'd with my Heart,
And pusht it on, and bid it give her Death;
But Oh! her Eyes struck first, and murder'd me.
Zan.