FURIA. Or would you like a crown of leaves From the old winter oak near mother's home, That withered when a young dishonored woman With piercing cries distraught leaped in the river?
CATILINE. Pour out at once your measures of revenge Upon my head—
FURIA. I am your very eye,— Your very memory, your very doom.
CATILINE. But wherefore now?
FURIA. His goal at length attained, The traveller spent looks back from whence he came.
CATILINE. Have I then reached my goal? Is this the goal? I am no longer living,—nor yet buried. Where lies the goal?
FURIA. In sight,—if you but will.
CATILINE. A will I have no longer; my will perished When all the things I willed once, came to naught.
CATILINE. [Waves his arms.] Away,—away from me, ye sallow shades! What claim you here of me, ye men and women? I cannot give you—! Oh, this multitude—!
FURIA. To earth your spirit still is closely bound! These thousand-threaded nets asunder tear! Come, let me press this wreath upon your locks,— 'Tis gifted with a strong and soothing virtue; It kills the memory, lulls the soul to rest!