AURELIA. And when with all the flowers of the land You come to me, your sovereign, in my bowers, Then shall I crown you with the laurel band, And cry, All hail to you, my king of flowers!— But why do you grow pale? Wildly you press My hand,—and strangely now your eyes are glowing—
CATILINE. Aurelia, alas, past is your happiness;— There we can never, never think of going. There we can never go!
AURELIA. You frighten me! Yet, surely,—you are jesting, Catiline?
CATILINE. I jest! Would only that it were a jest! Each word you speak, like the avenging dart Of Nemesis, pierces my heavy heart, Which fate will never grant a moment's rest.
AURELIA. O gods! speak, speak! What do you mean?
CATILINE. See here! Here is your villa,—here your future joys!
[He draws out a purse filled with gold and throws it on the table.]
AURELIA. Oh, you have sold—?
CATILINE. Yes,—all I sold today;— And to what end? In order to corrupt—
AURELIA. O Catiline, no more! Let us not think On this affair; sorrow is all it brings.