Count. Distract me not, but speak.

 Countess. I must. Your father

   Was wise, brave, politic; but mad ambition,

   (Heaven pardon him!) it prompts to desperate deeds.

[pg 18]

[pg 18]

 Count. I scarce can breathe. Pr'ythee be quick, and ease me.

 Countess. Your absence on the Italian embassy

   Left him, you know, alone to my fond care.

   Long had some hidden grief, like a slow fire,

   Wasted his vitals;—on the bed of death,

   One object seem'd to harrow up his soul,

   The picture of Alphonso in the chamber:

   On that, his eye was set.—Methinks I see him,

   His ashy hue, his grisled, bristling hair,

   His palms spread wide. For, ever would he cry,

   "That awful form—how terrible he frowns!

   See, how he bares his livid, leprous breast,

   And points the deadly chalice!"

 Count. Ha! even so!

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