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410 WILLIAM CONGREVE [ACT III
How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters;
Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled
And pinioned like a thief or murderer?
Shall I not hurt and bruise thy tender body,
And stain thy bosom with the rust of these
Rude irons? Must I meet thee thus, Almeria?
Aim. Thus, thus; we parted, thus to meet again.
Thou told'st me thou wouldst think how we might meet
To part no more.—Now we will part no more;
For these thy chains, or death, shall join us ever.
Osm. Hard means to ratify that word!—O cruelty!
That ever I should think beholding thce
A torture!—Yet, such is the bleeding anguish
Of my heart, to see thy sufferings.—O Heaven!
That I could almost turn my eyes away,
Or wish thee fronismy sight.
Aim. O, say not so!
Though 'tis because thou lovest me. Do not say,
On any terms, that thou dost wish me from thee.
No, no, 'tis better thus, that WE together
Feed on each other's heart, devour our woes
With mutual appetite; and mingling in
One cup the common stream of both our eyes,
Drink bitter draughts, with never-slaking thirst.
Thus better, than for any cause to part.
What dost thou think? Look not so tenderly
Upon me,—speak, and take me in thy arms,—
Thou canst not! thy poor arms are bound, and strive
In vain with the remorseless chains which gnaw
And eat into thy flesh, festering thy limbs
With rankling rust.
Osm. Oh! Oh!
Aim. Give me that sigh.
Why dost thou heave and stifle in thy griefs?
Thy heart will burst, thy eyes look red and start;
Give thy soul way, and tell me thy dark thought.
Osm. POT this world's rule I would not wound thy breast
With such a dagger as then stuck my heart.
Aim. Why? why? to know it cannot wound me more,
Thank knowing thou hast felt it. Tell it me.
Thou givcst me pain with too much tenderness.
Osm. And thy excessive love distracts my sense!