Act 5 — SCENE III.

So the silver-feather'd swan, Both by death and colour wan, Loves to sing, before she die, Leaving life so willingly. But how can I sing a note, When dead hoarseness stops my throat? Or how can I play a stroke, When my heart-strings are all broke? Come, guilty night, and with black velvet wings Mantle me round: let melancholic thoughts Hang all my brain with blacks, this darksome grove, My gallery. So, all things suit my mind: Such funeral colours please a gasping heart. I died with thee, Landora, once; now only Some struggling spirits are behind, to be Laid out with most thrift on thy memory. Where shall I first begin my last complaint, Which must be measur'd by my glass of life? At thee, Hirildas, slain in furious mood, By whose help only I enjoy'd my love? Or thee, Landora, dying for his sake, And in thy death including mine? Or at my country's wreck, whose surface torn Doth for my vengeance importune the pole? Or at myself? Ay, there is sorrow's spring. Shall I go wand'ring, lurk in woods unknown (A banish'd hermit), and sigh out my griefs, Teaching the pretty birds to sing, My dear, My dear Landora? There to feed on acorns, Drink the clear fountain, and consume with weeping, Were but an easy life, an easy death: My violent passion must have sudden vent. Refined soul, whose odoriferous light The damned hags stare at, and whining elves, Thinking it heaven in hell, behold my pangs, Pity my dying groans, and be more soft. O, may our shadows mingle; then shall I Envy no more those citizens above, The ambrosian juncates of th' Olympian hall. And all that gorgeous roof. But cowards talk. Come, thou last refuge of a wearisome life. [Draws his poignard. A passport to the Elysian land, a key To unlock my griev'd inmate. Lo! I come. O, let this river from my eyes, this stream [Unbuttons. From my poor breast, beg favour of thy ghost: O, let this lukewarm blood thy rigour steep, [Stabs. And mollify thy adamantine heart. Leander-like, I swim to thee through blood: Be thy bright eyes my Pharos, and conduct me Through the dull night of gloomy Erebus. Flow, flow, ye lively drops, and from my veins Run winding to the ocean of my bliss: Tell her my love, and, if she still shall doubt, Swear that ye came directly from my heart. I stay too long. [Stabs again.] Sweet lady, give me welcome. Though I shall pass twelve monsters, as the sun, Or twelve Herculean labours on a row, Yet one kind look makes all my labours sweet. Thou fairy queen[343] of the Tartarian court, To whom Proserpine may the apple give, Worthier than she to warm old Pluto's bed; See thy poor vassal welt'ring in his gore. I faint, I faint; I die thy martyr, as I liv'd thy priest: Great goddess, be propitious! sweet Landora— [Falls and dies.