Lys. What unexpected mischiefs circle me,
What arts hath malice, arm'd with fortune, found
To make me wretched? Could I e'er have thought
A miracle could have restor'd thee to my eyes,
That[364] they should, see the joys of heaven in thee?
Yet now the height of my affliction is,
That they behold thee, guilty of the close
Of thine for ever. See, Hermione,
The countenance death should put on, when death
Would have us throng unto her palaces,
And court her frozen sepulchres.
Ire. Sure, she is dead: how pale she is!
Lys. No; she is white as lilies, as the snow
That falls upon Parnassus; if the red were here,
As I have seen't enthron'd, the rising day would get
New excellence by being compared to her:
Argos nor Cyprus [nor] Egypt ne'er saw
A beauty like to this; let it be lawful for me to usurp
So much on death's right, as to take a kiss
From thy cold virgin-lips, where he and love
Yet strive for empire. The flames that rise from hence
Are not less violent, though less pleasing now,
Than when she did consent I should receive
What now I ravish.
Moor. Dares not death shut those eyes, where love
Hath enter'd once, or am I in the shades
Assisted with the ghost of my dear Lysicles?
Lys. She speaks again: good heaven, she speaks again!
Moor. And, therefore dying; but, before I go,
Let me obtain your pardon for the wrongs
My jealousy hath thrown upon your innocence.
'Twas my too perfect knowledge of my want
Of merit to deserve, made me doubt yours:
I mean your constant love, which I will teach
Below, and make them learn again to love
Who have died for it.
Lys. Do not abuse your mercy and my grief
By asking pardon of your murtherer;
But curse your sufferings off on this devoted head,
To save the beauty of the world in you.
Moor. Why should your grief make me repent the joys
I ever begg'd of heaven—the knowledge
Of your love? Could there be added more
Unto my happiness, than to be confirm'd
By my own sufferings, how much you did love me,
And prosecuted those that desired my ruin?
Like Semele I die, who could not take
The full God in her arms.
I have but one wish more, that I may bear
Unto the shades the glorious title of your wife:
If I may live so long to hear but this
Pronounc'd by Lysicles, I die in peace.
Lys. Hear it, with my vows not to behold
The sun rise after you are gone.