(Clifford retires up the stage out of her sight.)
Is he gone?
Oh, docile lover! Do his mistress’ wish
That went against his own! Do it so soon,
Ere well ’twas uttered! No good-by to her!
No word, no look! ’Twas best that so he went.
Alas the strait of her who owns that best
Which last she’d wish were done! What’s left me now?
To weep, to weep!
(Leans her head upon her arm, which rests upon the table, her other arm hanging listless at her side. Clifford comes down the stage, looks a moment at her, approaches her, and, kneeling, takes her hand.)