hat heart which I have purchas'd with my own?
Tell me the secret; I conjure you, tell me.
Speak then, I charge you speak, or I expire,
And load you with my death. My lord, my lord!

_Alon._ Ha, ha, ha!

[_he breaks from her, and she sinks upon the floor._

_Leon._ Are these the joys which fondly I conceiv'd?
And is it thus a wedded life begins?
What did I part with, when I gave my heart?
I knew not that all happiness went with it.
Why did I leave my tender father's wing,
And venture into love? The maid that loves,
Goes out to sea upon a shatter'd plank,
And puts her trust in miracles for safety.
Where shall I sigh?--where pour out my complaint?
He that should hear, should succour, should redress,
He is the source of all.

_Alon._ Go to thy chamber;
I soon will follow; that which now disturbs thee
Shall be clear'd up, and thou shalt not condemn me. [_exit Leonora._
Oh, how like innocence she looks!--What, stab her!
And rush into her blood?
How then? why thus--no more; it is determin'd.

_Re-enter Zanga._

_Zan._ I fear, his heart has fail'd him. She must die.
Can I not rouse the snake that's in his bosom,
To sting out human nature, and effect it? [_aside._

_Alon._ This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun,
Those skies, through which it rolls, must all have end.
What then is man? the smallest part of nothing.
Day buries day; month, month; and year, the year.
Our life is but a chain of many deaths;
Can then death's self be fear'd? our life much rather.
Life is the desert, life the solitude.
Death joins us to the great majority:
'Tis to be borne to Platos and to Caesars;
'Tis to be great for ever;
'Tis pleasure, 'tis ambition, then to die.

_Zan._ I think, my lord, you talk'd of death.

_Alon._ I did.

_Zan._ I give you joy, then Leonora's dead.

_Alon._ No, Zanga; to shed a woman's blood
Would stain my sword, and make my wars inglorious;
He who, superior to the checks of nature,
Dares make his life the victim of his reason,
Does in some sort that reason deify,
And take a flight at heaven.

_Zan._ Alas, my lord,
'Tis not your reason, but her beauty, finds
Those arguments, and throws you on your sword.
You cannot close an eye that is so bright,
You cannot strike a breast that is so soft,
That has ten thousand ecstasies in store--
For Carlos?--No, my lord, I mean for you.

_Alon._ Oh, through my heart and marrow! pr'ythee, spare me,
Nor more upbraid the weakness of thy lord:
I own,