thee to thy couch. I do perceive
In thy pale cheek and in thy bloodshot eye
A strange distemperature--nay, as a boon,
I do entreat thee to thy rest.

_Werner_. My _rest!_ 40
Well--be it so--Good Night!

_Josepha_. Thy hand is burning;
I will prepare a potion:--peace be with thee--
Tomorrow's dawn I trust will find thee healthful;
And, then, our Ulric may perchance--

_Werner_. _Our_ Ulric--thine and mine--our only boy--
Curse on his father and his father's Sire!
(For, if it is so, I will render back
A curse that Heaven will hear as well as his),
Our Ulric by his father's fault or folly,
And by my father's unrelenting pride, 50
Is at this hour, perchance, undone. This night
That shelters us may shower it's wrath on him--
A homeless beggar for his parent's sin--
Thy sin and mine--Thy child and mine atones--
Our Ulric--Woman!--I'll to no bed to-night--
There is no pillow for my thoughts.

_Josepha_. What words,
What fearful words are these! what may they mean?

_Werner_. Look on me--thou hast known me, hitherto,
As an oppressed, but yet a humble creature;
By birth predestined to the yoke I've borne. 60
Till now I've borne it patiently, at least,
In bitter silence--but the hour is come,
That should and shall behold me as I was,
And ought again to be--

_Josepha_. I know not what
Thy mystery may tend to, but my fate--
My heart--my will--my love are linked with thine,
And I would share thy sorrow: lay it open.

_Werner_. Thou see'st the son of Count--but let it pass--
I forfeited the name in wedding thee:
That fault of many faults a father's pride 70
Proclaimed the last and worst--and, from that hour,
He disavowed, disherited, debased
A wayward son----tis a long tale--too long--
And I am heartsick of the heavy thought.

_Josepha_. Oh, I could weep--but that were little solace:
Yet tell the rest--or, if thou wilt not, say--
Yet say--why, through long years, from me withheld,
This fearful secret that hath gnawed thy soul?

_Werner_. Why? had it not been base to call on thee
For patience and for pity--to awake 80