Mary Stuart. Friedrich von Schiller

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                        And bloodily,

         I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:

         You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.

         You were, when you consented to this deed,

         No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;

         The madness of a frantic love possessed you,

         And bound you to a terrible seducer,

         The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man

         Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will,

         And with his philters and his hellish arts

         Inflamed your passions.

                      All the arts he used

         Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.

         No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits

         Of hell he must have summoned to his aid,

         To cast this mist before your waking senses.

         Your ear no more was open to the voice

         Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut

         To decency; soft female bashfulness

         Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before

         The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,

         Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.

         You cast away the veil of secrecy,

         And the flagitious daring of the man

         O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed

         Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:

         You let the murderer, whom the people followed

         With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,

         Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland

         In triumph. You begirt your parliament

         With armed bands; and by this shameless farce,

         There, in the very temple of great justice,

         You forced the judges of the land to clear

         The murderer of his guilt. You went still further —

         O God!

             Conclude – nay, pause not – say for this

         I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.

         O let an everlasting silence veil

         That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.

         A crime to stain the darkest criminal!

         Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.

         I nursed your youth myself – your heart is framed

         For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,

         And all your fault is thoughtless levity.

         Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,

         Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast

         Their fatal residence, and there delight

         To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back

         Unto their native hell, and leave behind

         Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.

         Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,

         You have done nothing ill; your conduct has

         Been pure; myself can witness your amendment.

         Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.

         Whatever cause you have for penitence,

         You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,

         Nor England's parliament can be your judge.

         Here might oppresses you: you may present

         Yourself before this self-created court

         With all the fortitude of innocence.

         I hear a step.

                 It is the nephew – In.

         Step to the door, and keep a careful watch,

         I have important business with the queen.

         I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence – remain.

         Fear not, my gracious lady – learn to know me.

            [He gives her a card.

         Heavens! What is this?

                      Retire, good Kennedy;

         See that my uncle comes not unawares.

         Go in; do as he bids you.

                       From my uncle

         In France – the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?

         "Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this;

         You have no truer, firmer friend in England."

         Can I believe it? Is there no delusion

         To cheat my senses? Do I find a friend

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