MAX.
OCTAVIO.
I calculated on a prudent son,
Who would have blessed the hand beneficent
That pluck'd him back from the abyss—and lo!
A fascinated being I discover,
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
Go, question him!—Be mad enough, I pray thee.
The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor,
Go, give it up free booty!—Force me, drive me
To an open breach before the time. And now,
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,
Let me have liv'd to see that mine own son,
With frantic enterprise, annihilates
My toilsome labours and state-policy.
MAX.
You will some time, with your state-policy,
Compel him to the measure: it may happen,
Because ye are determin'd that he is guilty,
Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off,
You close up every outlet, hem him in
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him—
Yes, ye,—ye force him, in his desperation,
To set fire to his prison.—Father! father!
That never can end well—it cannot—will not!
