Leo. The king must die,—­he must, my Torrismond,
Though pity softly plead within my soul;
Yet he must die, that I may make you great,
And give a crown in dowry with my love.

Tor. Perish that crown—­on any head but yours! 
O, recollect your thoughts! 
Shake not his hour-glass, when his hasty sand
Is ebbing to the last: 
A little longer, yet a little longer,
And nature drops him down, without your sin;
Like mellow fruit, without a winter storm.

Leo. Let me but do this one injustice more.  His doom is past, and, for your sake, he dies.

Tor. Would you, for me, have done so ill an act,
And will not do a good one! 
Now, by your joys on earth, your hopes in heaven,
O spare this great, this good, this aged king;
And spare your soul the crime!

Leo. The crime’s not mine;
’Twas first proposed, and must be done, by Bertran,
Fed with false hopes to gain my crown and me;
I, to enhance his ruin, gave no leave,
But barely bade him think, and then resolve.

Tor. In not forbidding, you command the crime: 
Think, timely think, on the last dreadful day;
How will you tremble, there to stand exposed,
And foremost, in the rank of guilty ghosts,
That must be doomed for murder! think on murder: 
That troop is placed apart from common crimes;
The damned themselves start wide, and shun that band,
As far more black, and more forlorn than they.

Leo. ’Tis terrible! it shakes, it staggers me;
I knew this truth, but I repelled that thought. 
Sure there is none, but fears a future state;
And, when the most obdurate swear they do not,
Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.

  Enter TERESA.

Send speedily to Bertran; charge him strictly
Not to proceed, but wait my farther pleasure.

Ter. Madam, he sends to tell you, ’tis performed. [Exit.

Tor. Ten thousand plagues consume him! furies drag him,
Fiends tear him! blasted be the arm that struck,
The tongue that ordered!—­only she be spared,
That hindered not the deed!  O, where was then
The power, that guards the sacred lives of kings? 
Why slept the lightning and the thunder-bolts,
Or bent their idle rage on fields and trees,
When vengeance called them here?

Leo. Sleep that thought too; ’Tis done, and, since ’tis done, ’tis past recal; And, since ’tis past recal, must be forgotten.

Tor. O, never, never, shall it be forgotten! 
High heaven will not forget it; after-ages
Shall with a fearful curse remember ours;
And blood shall never leave the nation more!

Leo. His body shall be royally interred,
And the last funeral-pomps adorn his hearse;
I will myself (as I have cause too just,)
Be the chief mourner at his obsequies;
And yearly fix on the revolving day
The solemn marks of mourning, to atone,
And expiate my offence.