Classic Poem

SCENE VII.

Ast. 'Twas downright arrogance. I saw his scorn,
A Lover reads the thought of every look,
And needs no comment or interpreter.
What woman can forgive that worst of insults?
Not ev'n the most deform'd of all our sex
Can bear contempt. And shall I pardon it?
To pardon it, is to insult myself,
And own that I deserve it. [ Aside ]. Know you ought
Of what the King in judgment has determin'd?
Dor. Sophernes was accus'd.
Ast. Was he found guilty?
Dor. Yes, prov'd a traytor.
Ast. Then I'm satisfy'd.
Dor. How one affliction crouds upon another,
To punish this ungrateful man!
Ast. What mean you?
Dor. It is confirm'd among the captive women
(Who now attend to pass before the presence)
His wife was slain in battle.
Ast. Would he were dead!
Yet were he dead, would he dye in my thoughts?
Talk to me, speak; leave me not to reflection.
Yet what will talk avail? — I've lost attention.
Were her words soft and soothing as the lyre,
Or strong and sprightly as th' enlivening trumpet,
I could hear nought but conscience. Would he were dead!
You shall not leave me.
Dor. See the king returns.