Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/95

68 Could the dishonoured Lalage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory— My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honours of thy house, And with thy glory? Pol. Speak not to me of glory! I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage and I Politian? Do I not love—art thou not beautiful— What need we more? Ha! glory!—now speak not of it. By all I hold most sacred and most solemn By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter— By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven— There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it under foot. What matters it— What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonoured and forgotten Into the dust—so we descend together. Descend together—and then—and then perchance—— Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian? Pol. And then perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest. And still—— Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian? Pol. And still together—together. Lal. Now Earl of Leicester! Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. Pol. Oh, Lalage! (throwing himself upon his knee.) And lovest thou me?