Does he see?
Does he attend?
BISHOP OF VENOSA.
He sees; but if the dying
Attend, or how to construe their attention,
Whether their eyes are purged, or focus fresh
We scarce may reckon. These illumined eyes
Are abstract, steady in their fever-light:
My lords, ere morning we shall see them fade,
Or soften into life. A child-like nature,
That may just slip away, or, fronting death,
As at a play, leave the grim stage behind,
And join us unsuspicious in the street.
Enter Bonafede, Lord Bishop of Chiusi, hurriedly.
BONAFEDE.
Physician!
VENOSA.
Ay, lord Bonafede—you
Come from a bed of even graver sickness,
More tragic, youth contending.
BONAFEDE.
Hush! Duke Cesare
Has but one thought—His Holiness.