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Nay, tax not me with passion's wasting fire; When the swift message set my spirit free, Blind, helpless, lone, I left my gray-haired sire; My friends were many, he had none save me. I left him, orphaned, in the starless night; Alas, for him no cheerful morning's dawn! I wear the ransomed spirit's robe of white, Yet still I hear him moaning, She is gone! Ye know me not, sweet sisters?
What grief is theirs who love and prove the loved one's perfidy! Love and affliction hour by hour redouble in my breast: The days of exile are prolonged; no end to them I see. Muslims, avenge a slave of love, the host of wakefulness, Whose patience hath been trampled out by passion's tyranny!
A mother's prayers are vain! Kneel at his feet conjure him melt his heart! Oh, bid him live! DON CAESAR. Deceitful mother, thus Thou triest thy son! And wouldst thou stir my soul Again to passion's strife, and make the sun Beloved once more, now when I tread the paths Of everlasting night?
Would the tide which was somehow within me carry me out and out, in spite of all I could do? "Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core...." I did not shirk my tasks at the store, although I never got over the feeling that a fine instrument was being employed where a coarser one would have done equally well.
She had saved some, avenged others. It should be stated, that her notion of saving was the saving of them from the public: she had thrown up a screen. The saving of them from themselves was another matter hopeless, to her thinking. How preach at a creature on the bend of passion's rapids! One might as well read a chapter from the Bible to delirious patients.
For I was fated to barter the Double Diadem of the Upper and the Lower Land for a wreath of passion's roses that fade before they fully bloom, and Pharaoh's ivory bed of state for the pillow of a faithless woman's breast. "King of Love!" they crowned me in their mockery; ay, and King of Shame!
"Give me that man that is not passion's slave and I will wear him in my heart's core. . . ."
The father sat down at a window, and strove to meditate. But his arm ached. The mother sang on, and presently he found himself waiting for the fourth stanza. It did not come; the child was still; but his memory supplied it: "And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age May shake the soul with sorrow's power, And stormy passion's rage."
But, my poor lad, granting your actress is a divine instrument of amorous music, I don't believe you capable of drawing from it one single note of passion's fugue.... Just consider. I don't spend my nights supping with ladies of the theatre; but we all know what an actress is.
Thus, though men, to avoid the shame of one villainy, are sometimes guilty of a greater, yet it is easy to see that the original tendency of shame is to prevent the doing of shameful actions; and its leading men to conceal such actions when done is only in consequence of their being done; i.e., of the passion's not having answered its first end.
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