Monk. I did.
Lalage. 'Tis well.
There is a vow were fitting should be made—
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow!
Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!
Lalage. Father, this zeal is any thing but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
A vow—a vow. (he hands her his own.)
Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering.)
Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
I have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
And the deed's register should tally, father! (draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!
Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter!
And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine—
Pause ere too late—oh be not—be not rash!
Swear not the oath—oh swear it not!
Lalage. 'Tis sworn!
II.
ROME. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar, his friend.
Baldazzar.——Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest!