[Taking out the KING's letter to the PRINCESS EBOLI.
Contained in this
Important paper--yes, the queen is free,--
Free before men and in the eyes of heaven;
There read, and cease to wonder at my words.

MARQUIS (opening the letter).
What do I here behold? The king's own hand!
[After he has read it.
To whom addressed?

CARLOS.
To Princess Eboli.
Two days ago, a page who serves the queen,
Brought me, from unknown hands, a key and letter,
Which said that in the left wing of the palace,
Where the queen lodges, lay a cabinet,--
That there a lady whom I long had loved
Awaited me. I straight obeyed the summons.

MARQUIS.
Fool! madman! you obeyed it----

CARLOS.
Not that I
The writing knew; but there was only one
Such woman, who could think herself adored
By Carlos. With delight intoxicate
I hastened to the spot. A heavenly song,
Re-echoing from the innermost apartment,
Served me for guide. I reached the cabinet--
I entered and beheld--conceive my wonder!

MARQUIS.
I guess it all----

CARLOS.
I had been lost forever,
But that I fell into an angel's hands!
She, hapless chance, by my imprudent looks,
Deceived, had yielded to the sweet delusion
And deemed herself the idol of my soul.
Moved by the silent anguish of my breast,
With thoughtless generosity, her heart
Nobly determined to return my love;
Deeming respectful fear had caused my silence,
She dared to speak, and all her lovely soul
Laid bare before me.

MARQUIS.
And with calm composure,
You tell this tale! The Princess Eboli
Saw through your heart; and doubtless she has pierced
The inmost secret of your hidden love.
You've wronged her deeply, and she rules the king.

CARLOS (confidently).
But she is virtuous!

MARQUIS.
She may be so
From love's mere selfishness. But much I fear
Such virtue--well I know it: know how little
It hath the power to soar to that ideal,
Which, first conceived in sweet and stately grace,
From the pure soul's maternal soil, puts forth
Spontaneous shoots, nor asks the gardener's aid
To nurse its lavish blossoms into life.
'Tis but a foreign plant, with labor reared,
And warmth that poorly imitates the south,
In a cold soil and an unfriendly clime.
Call it what name you will--or education,
Or principle, or artificial virtue
Won from the heat of youth by art and cunning,
In conflicts manifold--all noted down
With scrupulous reckoning to