Tor. That, that's the wound! I see you set so high,
As no desert or services can reach.—
Good heavens, why gave you me a monarch's soul,
And crusted it with base plebeian clay?
Why gave you me desires of such extent,
And such a span to grasp them? Sure, my lot
By some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced
In fate's eternal volume!—But I rave,
And, like a giddy bird in dead of night,
Fly round the fire that scorches me to death.
Leo. Yet, Torrismond, you've not so ill deserved,
But I may give you counsel for your cure.
Tor. I cannot, nay, I wish not to be cured.
Leo. [Aside.] Nor I, heaven knows!
Tor. There is a pleasure, sure,
In being mad, which none but madmen know!
Let me indulge it; let me gaze for ever!
And, since you are too great to be beloved,
Be greater, greater yet, and be adored.
Leo. These are the words which I must only hear
From Bertran's mouth; they should displease from you:
I say they should; but women are so vain,
To like the love, though they despise the lover.
Yet, that I may not send you from my sight
In absolute despair,—I pity you.
409 Tor. Am I then pitied! I have lived enough!—
Death, take me in this moment of my joy;
But, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion,
Spare this one thought! let me remember pity,
And, so deceived, think all my life was blessed.
Leo. What if I add a little to my alms?
If that would help, I could cast in a tear
To your misfortunes.
Tor. A tear! You have o'erbid all my past sufferings,
And all my future too!
Leo. Were I no queen—
Or you of royal blood—