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To the still blessing of unvision'd rest,
Who may imagine or conjecture?—Blessing!
Alas! it is a dull unjoyous blessing
To lose, with consciousness of pain, all consciousness:
The pleasure of sweet sounds and beauteous sights.
Bride, sister, friends,—all vanish'd and extinct,
That stilly, endless rest may be unbroken.
Oh, oh! he is a miserable man,
Who covets such a blessing!—Hush, bad thoughts!
Rebellious, faithless thoughts! My misery
Is deep enough to make ev'n this a blessing.

Enter Artina.

It cannot be! is it some fantasy?
Who and what art thou?

ARTINA (approaching him softly).

The thing I seem; thy miserable sister.

SAMARKOON.

My gen'rous, loving sister, in her love

Running such fearful risk to comfort me.

ARTINA.

Nay, more than this, dear brother; more than comfort;

I come to set thee free.