With poignard point at breast, and bated breath,
Slow sliding o'er the blood-stain'd grass
Dies Thisbe; and so 'mid lovers holds
The palm for purest love.
For me, nor fire, nor cord, nor poison'd bowl—
One single shock shall free the deathless soul!
Enter Celia.
Celia. With Aurelio, lady, did I speak, and in his hand
Your letter placed.
Julia. He read it?
Celia. He did.
Julia. Scann'd he each word?
Celia. Yes, dear lady; and my grief was great
To see Aurelio weep, for at each word
He read, a bitter sigh escaped his breast.
His cell he enter'd, and when an hour had gone
Return'd, and in my hand this phial placed,
And said that thou should'st drink the juice
It doth contain. So spake Aurelio, lady.
Julia. I did write that I would die by steel
Or cord, ere I, Roselo's wife, would Paris wed,
Celia, he knows our love, and knows that when
I penn'd those blotted lines, my life
Did hang upon a chance, and now distils
As comfort to my breaking heart nought
But some harmless sweet confection.
Celia. Thou knowest, lady, he's well skill'd
In subtlety of herb and poisonous weed,
And hath a fame more wide than all Verona holds.
(Some lines wanting here.)
