PRINCE HENRY.
It has no name.
A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,
As in a kiln, burns in my veins,
Sending up vapors to the head;
My heart has become a dull lagoon,
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;
I am accounted as one who is dead,
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon.
LUCIFER. And has Gordonius the Divine, In his famous Lily of Medicine,— I see the book lies open before you,— No remedy potent enough to restore you?
PRINCE HENRY. None whatever!
LUCIFER.
The dead are dead,
And their oracles dumb, when questioned
Of the new diseases that human life
Evolves in its progress, rank and rife.
Consult the dead upon things that were,
But the living only on things that are.
Have you done this, by the appliance
And aid of doctors?
PRINCE HENRY.
Ay, whole schools
Of doctors, with their learned rules;
But the case is quite beyond their science.
Even the doctors of Salern
Send me back word they can discern
No cure for a malady like this,
Save one which in its nature is
Impossible and cannot be!
LUCIFER. That sounds oracular!
PRINCE HENRY.
Unendurable!
LUCIFER. What is their remedy?
PRINCE HENRY.
You shall see;
Writ in this scroll is the mystery.
LUCIFER, reading. "Not to be cured, yet not incurable! The only remedy that remains Is the blood that flows from a maiden's veins, Who of her own free will shall die, And give her life as the price of yours!"