Opas. Consider, and speak calmly: she deserves
Some pity, some reproof.
Rod. To speak then calmly,
Since thine eyes open and can see her guilt—
—Infamous and atrocious! let her go—
Chains—
Opas. What! in Muza’s camp?
Rod. My scorn supreme!
Opas. Say, pity.
Rod. Aye, aye, pity—that suits best,
I loved her, but had loved her; three whole years
Of pleasure, and of varied pleasure too,
Had worne the soft impression half away.
What I once felt, I would recall; the faint
Responsive voice grew fainter each reply:
Imagination sunk amid the scenes
It labour’d to create; the vivid joy
Of fleeting youth I followed, and posest.
’Tis the first moment of the tenderest hour,
’Tis the first mien on entering new delights,
We give our peace, our power, our souls, for these.
Opas. Thou hast; and what remains?
Rod. Myself—Roderigo—
Whom hatred cannot reach, nor love cast down.
Opas. Nor gratitude nor pity nor remorse
Call back, nor vows nor earth nor heaven controul.
But art thou free and happy? art thou safe?
By shrewd contempt the humblest may chastize
Whom scarlet and its ermine cannot scare,
And the sword skulks for everywhere in vain.
Thee the poor victim of thy outrages,
Woman, with all her weakness, may despise.
Rod. But first let quiet age have intervened.