JULIA, reads.
"Not as a flame that by some force is spent,
But one that of itself consumeth quite,
Departed hence in peace the soul content,
In fashion of a soft and lucent light
Whose nutriment by slow gradation goes,
Keeping until the end its lustre bright.
Not pale, but whiter than the sheet of snows
That without wind on some fair hill-top lies,
Her weary body seemed to find repose.
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely eyes,
When now the spirit was no longer there,
Was what is dying called by the unwise.
E'en Death itself in her fair face seemed fair"—
Is it of Laura that he here is speaking?— She doth not answer, yet is not asleep; Her eyes are full of light and fixed on something Above her in the air. I can see naught Except the painted angels on the ceiling. Vittoria! speak! What is it? Answer me!— She only smiles, and stretches out her hands.
[The mirror falls and breaks.
VITTORIA. Not disobedient to the heavenly vision! Pescara! my Pescara! [Dies.
JULIA.
Holy Virgin!
Her body sinks together,—she is dead!
[Kneels and hides her face in Vittoria's lap.
Enter MICHAEL ANGELO.
JULIA. Hush! make no noise.
MICHAEL ANGELO.
How is she?