—­What’s here?  Alas, that which I dare not look on,
And yet, why should I shun that Image here,
Which I continually about me bear? 
But why, dear Picture, art thou still so gay,
Since she is gone from whom those Charms were borrow’d? 
Those Eyes that gave this speaking life to thine,
Those lovely Eyes are clos’d in endless darkness;
There’s not a Star in all the face of Heaven,
But now out-shines those Suns: 
Suns at Noon-day dispens’d not kindlier influence. 
And thou blest Mirror, that hast oft beheld
That Face, which Nature never made a fairer;
Thou that so oft her Beauties back reflected,
And made her know what wondrous power there lay
In every Feature of that lovely Face. 
But she will smile no more! no more! no more! 
—­Why, who shall hinder her?  Death, cruel Death. 
—­’Twas I that murder’d her—­
Thou lyest—­thou durst as well be damn’d as touch her,
She was all sacred; and that impious Hand
That had profanely touch’d her,
Had wither’d from the Body. 
—­I lov’d her—­I ador’d her, and could I,
Could I approach her with unhallowed thoughts? 
—­No, no, I durst not—­
But as devoutest Pilgrims do the Shrine. 
—­If I had done’t,
The Gods who take the part of Innocence,
Had been reveng’d—­
Why did not Thunder strike me in the Action? 
Why, if the Gods be just, and I had done’t,
Did they not suffer Earth to swallow me,
Quick—­quick into her bosom? 
—­But yet I say again, it was not I,
—­Let me behold this face,
That durst appear in such a Villany.
                      [He looks in the glass.

Enter Pisaro, and Erminia drest like an Angel with Wings.

Pis.  Look where he is.

Er.  Alas, I tremble at the sight of him.

Pis.  Fear nothing, Madam, I’ll be near you still.

Er.  Pray stay a little longer.

Alcip.—­My Face has Horror in’t pale and disfigur’d,
And lean as Envy’s self—­
My Eyes all bloody,—­and my hanging lids
Like Midnight’s mischief, hide the guilty Balls,
—­And all about me calls me Murderer: 
—­Oh horrid Murderer! 
That very Sound tears out my hated Soul,
—­And to compleat my ruin,
I’ll still behold this face where Murder dwells.

[He looks in the glass, Erminia steals behind him, and
looks into it over his shoulder; he is frighted.

Ha—­what does this Glass present me? 
What art thou?—­speak—­What art thou?
                           [Turns by degrees towards it. 
—­Sure I am fixt, what, shall the Devil fright me? 
—­Me shall he fright,
Who stood the Execution of a Murder? 
—­But ’tis that Shape, and not thy Nature frights me,
—­That calls the blood out of my panting Heart,
That Traytor Heart that did conspire thy death.

Er.  Sit down and hear me—­