Tor. And who could dare to disavow his crime,
When that, for which he is accused and seized,
He bears about him still!  My eyes confess it;
My every action speaks my heart aloud: 
But, oh, the madness of my high attempt
Speaks louder yet! and all together cry,—­
I love and I despair.

Leo. Have you not heard,
My father, with his dying voice, bequeathed
My crown and me to Bertran?  And dare you,
A private man, presume to love a queen?

Tor. That, that’s the wound!  I see you set so high,
As no desert or services can reach.—­
Good heavens, why gave you me a monarch’s soul,
And crusted it with base plebeian clay? 
Why gave you me desires of such extent,
And such a span to grasp them?  Sure, my lot
By some o’er-hasty angel was misplaced
In fate’s eternal volume!—­But I rave,
And, like a giddy bird in dead of night,
Fly round the fire that scorches me to death.

Leo. Yet, Torrismond, you’ve not so ill deserved, But I may give you counsel for your cure.

Tor. I cannot, nay, I wish not to be cured.

Leo. [Aside.] Nor I, heaven knows!

Tor. There is a pleasure, sure,
In being mad, which none but madmen know! 
Let me indulge it; let me gaze for ever! 
And, since you are too great to be beloved,
Be greater, greater yet, and be adored.

Leo. These are the words which I must only hear
From Bertran’s mouth; they should displease from you: 
I say they should; but women are so vain,
To like the love, though they despise the lover. 
Yet, that I may not send you from my sight
In absolute despair,—­I pity you.

Tor. Am I then pitied!  I have lived enough!—­
Death, take me in this moment of my joy;
But, when my soul is plunged in long oblivion,
Spare this one thought! let me remember pity,
And, so deceived, think all my life was blessed.

Leo. What if I add a little to my alms?  If that would help, I could cast in a tear To your misfortunes.

Tor. A tear!  You have o’erbid all my past sufferings, And all my future too!

Leo. Were I no queen—­ Or you of royal blood—­

Tor. What have I lost by my forefathers’ fault! 
Why was not I the twentieth by descent
From a long restive race of droning kings? 
Love! what a poor omnipotence hast thou,
When gold and titles buy thee?

Leo. [Sighs.] Oh, my torture!—­

Tor. Might I presume,—­but, oh, I dare not hope That sigh was added to your alms for me!

Leo. I give you leave to guess, and not forbid you
To make the best construction for your love: 
Be secret and discreet; these fairy favours
Are lost, when not concealed[1].—­provoke not Bertran.—­
Retire:  I must no more but this,—­Hope, Torrismond. [Exit.