Count. Have I not hope to share the hours with me?
And who can e'er be sad in such sweet fellowship?
Thy last receding step dries up my tears,
For thus she gently whispers to my heart—
"The moment passed that bore him from thy view,
The next but draws him nearer to thy arms."
War. But how deceive the intervening moments?
Art thou not lonesome oft?
Count. How may that be?
From thee I never am divided. Thought
Personates thyself, and thus I talk with thee,
Sit by thy side, frame answers for thyself
So full of love, so paint thy face with smiles,
Thy eyes with such approval fill, my heart
Leaps with delight: then only am I lone
When some intruder comes intent to cheer me.
War. Why thus thou'lt make me jealous of myself,
And envious of the shadow I supply.
Count. Then too I sing to thee, or deck myself,
And try which ornament doth suit me best:
Smile at the smiling image I behold,
And bid the vivid blush, which spreads my cheek,
Fade not away, that it may tell my Warwick
'Twas thought of him which makes me value beauty,
And prize the charms that justifies his choice.
War. Sweet flatterer! Then thou art happy, Alice!
Count. Indeed I do not know what means unhappiness.
E'en from my infancy I have been blessed.
My eyes first opened on the laughing spring,
And all of life, of hope, of fond affection
Has been passed in springtide. I never shed
A tear till my great father died; and those
First tears were wiped away by him whom first
I loved.
War. But how! thou dost not even ask
If Salisbury's sad death has been avenged!
Count. Contains revenge then ought that may impart
Joy to felicity, or make repose
More tranquil, which already was complete,
That it should be desired?
War. Nor yet enquire
How speeds the war?