The Duchess of Padua. Wilde Oscar

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      Too true it is, you must get hence, Ascanio,

      And never look upon my face again.

      No, no; indeed you do not know me, Guido;

      ’Tis true I am a common yeoman’s son,

      Nor versed in fashions of much courtesy;

      But, if you are nobly born, cannot I be

      Your serving man?  I will tend you with more love

      Than any hired servant.

      Ascanio!

      It cannot be.

      What, is it so with you?

      I thought the friendship of the antique world

      Was not yet dead, but that the Roman type

      Might even in this poor and common age

      Find counterparts of love; then by this love

      Which beats between us like a summer sea,

      Whatever lot has fallen to your hand

      May I not share it?

      Share it?

      Ay!

      No, no.

      Have you then come to some inheritance

      Of lordly castle, or of stored-up gold?

      Ay! I have come to my inheritance.

      O bloody legacy! and O murderous dole!

      Which, like the thrifty miser, must I hoard,

      And to my own self keep; and so, I pray you,

      Let us part here.

      What, shall we never more

      Sit hand in hand, as we were wont to sit,

      Over some book of ancient chivalry

      Stealing a truant holiday from school,

      Follow the huntsmen through the autumn woods,

      And watch the falcons burst their tasselled jesses,

      When the hare breaks from covert.

      Never more.

      Must I go hence without a word of love?

      You must go hence, and may love go with you.

      You are unknightly, and ungenerous.

      Unknightly and ungenerous if you will.

      Why should we waste more words about the matter

      Let us part now.

      Have you no message, Guido?

      None; my whole past was but a schoolboy’s dream;

      To-day my life begins.  Farewell.

      Farewell [exit slowly.]

      Now are you satisfied?  Have you not seen

      My dearest friend, and my most loved companion,

      Thrust from me like a common kitchen knave!

      Oh, that I did it!  Are you not satisfied?

      Ay! I am satisfied.  Now I go hence,

      Do not forget the sign, your father’s dagger,

      And do the business when I send it to you.

      Be sure I shall.  [Exit Lord Moranzone.]

      O thou eternal heaven!

      If there is aught of nature in my soul,

      Of gentle pity, or fond kindliness,

      Wither it up, blast it, bring it to nothing,

      Or if thou wilt not, then will I myself

      Cut pity with a sharp knife from my heart

      And strangle mercy in her sleep at night

      Lest she speak to me.  Vengeance there I have it.

      Be thou my comrade and my bedfellow,

      Sit by my side, ride to the chase with me,

      When I am weary sing me pretty songs,

      When I am light o’ heart, make jest with me,

      And when I dream, whisper into my ear

      The dreadful secret of a father’s murder —

      Did I say murder?  [Draws his dagger.]

      Listen, thou terrible God!

      Thou God that punishest all broken oaths,

      And bid some angel write this oath in fire,

      That from this hour, till my dear father’s murder

      In blood I have revenged, I do forswear

      The noble ties of honourable friendship,

      The noble joys of dear companionship,

      Affection’s bonds, and loyal gratitude,

      Ay, more, from this same hour I do forswear

      All love of women, and the barren thing

      Which men call beauty —

      Oh! who is that?

      The Duchess of Padua!