But to buy pain for thee!  Pauline, ’tis strange! 
     Not thus, ye Gods!  Severus had been blind
     To perfect bliss—­had Fortune been more kind
     The only heaven for me is in thine eyes,
     These are my kings, these my divinities! 
     To me—­for thee—­were death with torture dear;
     But to renounce thee!

     Paul. 
     Nay, I must not hear! 
     Thy words bring back the dear, the bygone days,
     When I, a maid, might listen to thy praise: 
     Severus, thou must know my inmost heart;
     I hear the knell bids Polyeucte depart. 
     He dies,—­the victim of thine Emperor’s laws,
     And thou, though innocent, art yet the cause. 
     Oh, if thy soul, to thy desires a slave,
     See hope emerging from my husband’s grave
     Then will I wed with pain—­despair embrace,—­
     But wed Severus?  Never!  ’Twere disgrace! 
     To light fresh torch from that pale, flickering fire—­
     Oh, bliss too monstrous!  Thrice abhorred desire! 
     Back, hope!  Back, happiness!  The mate for me
     When Polyeucte leaves my side—­is Constancy! 
     Were this my will, were this, ye Gods, my fate—­
     To shame would memory turn, as love must yield to hate! 
     But generous art thou—­most generous be! 
     His pardon will my father grant to thee. 
     He fears thee:  more, if Polyeucte’s life he take,
     For thee he slays him—­yes, ’tis for thy sake. 
     Christ died for man—­let pagan virtue dim
     His fame:  plead for thy foe! so rival him! 
     No easy boon I ask, there needs a soul most rare;
     But when the fight is fierce—­then is the victory fair. 
     To help a man to be what thou wouldst be
     Is triumph that belongs alone to thee! 
     Let this suffice thee:  she, whom thou hast loved,
     She, who by thy great love was not unmoved,
     Of thee, and of no other dares to crave
     That thou, Severus, shouldst my husband save! 
     Farewell! of this thy labour gauge the scope: 
     If thou art less than I yet dare to hope,
     Then tell me not! all else Pauline can bear!

     (Exit Pauline.)

     SEV. 
     Where am I, Fabian?  Has the crack of doom
     Turned heaven to hell? made life a living tomb? 
     Nearer and dearer ever—­but to go! 
     The prize within my grasp must I o’erthrow? 
     This—­Fortune’s brimming cup, with poison filled,
     She bids me drain;—­so new-born hope is killed. 
     Before I proffer aught, I am refused;
     Thus sad, amazed, ashamed, in doubt, abused,
     I see the ghost I laid, to life revive,
     The more seductive still the more I strive. 
     Ah! must a woman, sunk in deep despair,
     Teach me that shame is base, and honour fair? 
     And while I madly shriek, ‘O love, be kind!’
     Pauline, death-stricken,