those words, my father!
All is not well, by heaven, all is not true,
That a priest says, and a priest's creatures plot.
I am not wicked, father; ardent blood
Is all my failing;--all my crime is youth;--
Wicked I am not--no, in truth, not wicked;--
Though many an impulse wild assails my heart,
Yet is it still untainted.

KING.
Ay, 'tis pure--
I know it--like thy prayers----

CARLOS.
Now, then, or never!
We are, for once, alone--the barrier
Of courtly form, that severed sire and son
Has fallen! Now a golden ray of hope
Illumes my soul--a sweet presentment
Pervades my heart--and heaven itself inclines,
With choirs of joyous angels, to the earth,
And full of soft emotion, the thrice blest
Looks down upon this great, this glorious scene!
Pardon, my father!

[He falls on his knees before him.

KING.
Rise, and leave me.

CARLOS.
Father!

KING (tearing himself from him).
This trifling grows too bold.

CARLOS.
A son's devotion
Too bold! Alas!

KING.
And, to crown all, in tears!
Degraded boy! Away, and quit my sight!

CARLOS.
Now, then, or never!--pardon, O my father!

KING.
Away, and leave my sight! Return to me
Disgraced, defeated, from the battle-field,
Thy sire shall meet thee with extended arms:
But thus in tears, I spurn thee from my feet.
A coward's guilt alone should wash its stains
In such ignoble streams. The man who weeps
Without a blush will ne'er want cause for tears!

CARLOS.
Who is this man? By what mistake of nature
Has he thus strayed amongst mankind? A tear
Is man's unerring, lasting attribute.
Whose eye is dry was ne'er of woman born!
Oh, teach the eye that ne'er hath overflowed,
The timely science of a tear--thou'lt need
The moist relief in some dark hour of woo.

KING.
Think'st thou to shake thy father's strong mistrust
With specious words?

CARLOS.
Mistrust! Then I'll remove it.
Here will I hang upon my father's breast,
Strain at his heart with vigor, till each shred
Of that mistrust, which, with a rock's endurance,
Clings firmly round it, piecemeal fall away.
And who are they who drive me from the king--
My father's favor? What requital hath
A monk to give a father for a son?
What compensation can the duke supply
For a deserted and a childless age?
Would'st thou be loved? Here in this bosom springs
A fresher, purer fountain, than e'er flowed
From those dark, stagn