Albin. 
     Perish the word!  It ne’er was made for thee,
     But wilt thou deal just meed to treachery?

     Felix. 
     I go to Polyeucte’s cell,—­though my poor breath
     Should there be spent in vain to avert his death;
     Then, then my fated child her strength shall try.

     Albin. 
     What wilt thou do if both he still defy?

     Felix. 
     O, press me not in agony so great! 
     To thee alone I turn—­resistless Fate!

ACT IV—­POLYEUCTE.  CLEON.  THREE OTHER GUARDS

     Poly. 
     What is thy will?

     Cleon. 
     Pauline would see my lord.

     Poly. 
     Ah, how my heart quails at that single word! 
     Thee, Felix, I o’ercame within my cell,
     Laughed at thy threats if death and torture fell;
     Yet hast thou still one arm to rouse my fears,
     The rest I scorn, but dread thy daughter’s tears! 
     One only talisman remains; great God, ’tis mine,
     Sufficient for my every need His strength divine! 
     O thou, dear saint, thy scars all healed, white-robed, in
          glory crowned,
     Plead that I too may victory win, thou who hast victory found! 
     Nearchus, who hast clasped in Heaven that dear, that pierced hand,
     Plead that thy friend, who wrestles here, may safely by thee stand! 
     Ye Guards, one last kind service, I would ask,
     Well may ye grant it, ’tis an easy task: 
     I do not seek deliverance from these thralls,
     (Looks at his chains.)
     I do not care to scale my prison walls,
     But, since three warriors armed can surely guard
     One fettered man in safest watch and ward,
     Go one, and beg of great Severus’ grace
     That he would deign to meet me face to face;
     To him would I a secret now impart,
     Which much concerns his joy and peace of heart.

     Cleon. 
     On willing foot, my lord, do I obey.

     Poly. 
     Severus must this kindly service pay;
     Ah, lose no time, time now has fleetest wings.

     Cleon. 
     Full soon to thee thy prayer Severus brings.

     (Exit Cleon.  Guardsmen retire to background.)

     Poly. 
     The fount is pure, yet bitter waters flow,
     Sin taints—­men poison what was made all fair. 
     They will not choose immortal streams:  they go
     To seek for pleasure—­but find only care: 
     Their pleasure wed to strife—­ah, death the gate of life,—­
     Christ’s servants, none but they His crown shall wear! 
     So pain
     Is gain: 
     Count not the cost! 
     The world well lost,
     His Heaven to share! 
     O Pleasure, think not that I sigh for thee,
     Thy charms, that once enslaved, no more delight;