erhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.

(_Exit_)

(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it_.)

_Lal_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(_taking up the mirror_)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!

(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved_)

_Monk_. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

_Lal.
(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below;
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!

_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!

_Lal_. Think of my early days!--think of my fath