Ire.

Dost thou say pity?

And pity as they tell's akin to love.

What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander,

Who love one so exalted in estate

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That all return of honourable love

Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise

My eyes to Cæsar's self? What comfort have I,

If lately I have heard this man I love

Communing with his soul, when none seemed near,

Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet

Of another, not myself; and well I know

Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance

Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death

Or hopeless depths of crime?

Asan.

Lady, I pity

Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.

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