what have I done!--my gentle love,
Here end thy sad discourse, and, for my sake,
Cast off these fearful melancholy thoughts.

_Tor._ My heart is withered at that piteous sight,
As early blossoms are with eastern blasts:
He sent for me, and, while I raised his head,
He threw his aged arms about my neck;
And, seeing that I wept, he pressed me close:
So, leaning cheek to cheek, and eyes to eyes,
We mingled tears in a dumb scene of sorrow.

_Leo._ Forbear; you know not how you wound my soul.

_Tor._ Can you have grief, and not have pity too?
He told me,--when my father did return,
He had a wond'rous secret to disclose:
He kissed me, blessed me, nay--he called me son;
He praised my courage; prayed for my success:
He was so true a father of his country,
To thank me, for defending even his foes,
Because they were his subjects.

_Leo._ If they be,--then what am I?

_Tor._ The sovereign of my soul, my earthly heaven.

_Leo._ And not your queen?

_Tor._ You are so beautiful,
So wond'rous fair, you justify rebellion;
As if that faultless face could make no sin,
But heaven, with looking on it, must forgive.

_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