Hyp.  Which means, in prose,
She’s sleeping with her mouth a little open!

Vict.  O, would I had the old magician’s glass
To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!

  Hyp.  And wouldst thou venture?

  Vict.  Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp.  Thou art courageous.  Hast thou e’er reflected
How much lies hidden in that one word, now?

Vict.  Yes; all the awful mystery of Life! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito,
That could we, by some spell of magic, change
The world and its inhabitants to stone,
In the same attitudes they now are in,
What fearful glances downward might we cast
Into the hollow chasms of human life! 
What groups should we behold about the death-bed,
Putting to shame the group of Niobe! 
What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells! 
What stony tears in those congealed eyes! 
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows! 
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! 
What lovers with their marble lips together!

Hyp.  Ay, there it is! and, if I were in love,
That is the very point I most should dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine,
Might tell a tale were better left untold. 
For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears
Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis,
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut,
Having won that golden fleece, a woman’s love,
Desertest for this Glauce.

Vict.  Hold thy peace! 
She cares not for me.  She may wed another,
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying,
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields.

 Hyp. (rising).  And so, good night!  Good morning, I should say.

(Clock strikes three.)

Hark! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time
Knocks at the golden portals of the day! 
And so, once more, good night!  We’ll speak more largely
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 
Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep,
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass,
In all her loveliness.  Good night!
                                  [Exit.

Vict.  Good night! 
But not to bed; for I must read awhile.

(Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in revery and watch
The changing color of the waves that break
Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind! 
Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,
Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye? 
O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,
Juices of those immortal plants that bloom
Upon Olympus, making us immortal? 
Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows
Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,