BULWER-LYTTON.
Melnotte. I hold her in these arms—the last embrace!
Never, ah, nevermore shall this dear head
Be pillowed on the heart that should have sheltered
And has betrayed! Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch!
No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now!
One kiss—so ends all record of my crime!
It is the seal upon the tomb of Hope,
By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits
Sad Memory evermore.
Lady of Lyons.
De Mauprat. [To Julie, kissing her hand.] Ay;
With my whole heart I love you!—
[To De Beringhen.] Now, sir, go,
And tell that to his Majesty! Who ever
Heard of its being a state-offence to kiss
The hand of one’s own wife?
Richelieu.