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412 WILLIAM CONGREVE [ACT III
This den for slaves, this dungeon damped with Woes;
Is this our marriage-bed? Are these our joys?
Is this to call thee mine? Oh, hold my heart!
To call thee mine? Yes; thus, even thus to call
Thee mine, were comfort, joy, extremes! ecstacy.
But D, thou art not mine, not even in misery!
And 'tis denied to me to be so blessed,
As to be wretched with thee.
Aim. No; not that
The extrernest malice of our fate can hinder:
That still is left us, and on that we'll feed,
As on the leavings of calamity.
There we will feast, and smile on past distress,
And hug, in scorn of it, our mutual ruin.
Osm. O thuu dost talk, my love, as one resolved
Because not knowing danger. But look forward;
Think on to-morrow, when thou shalt be torn
From these weak, struggling, uncxtcnded arms
Think how my heart will heave, and eyes will strain,
To grasp and reach what is denied my hands;
Think how the blood will start, and tears will gush
To follow thee, my separating soul!
Think how I am when thou shalt wed with Garcia!
Then will I smear these walls with blood, disfigure
And dash my face, and rive my clotted hair,
Break on the flinty floor my throbbing breast,
And grovel with gashed hands to scratch a grave,
Stripping my nails, to tear this pavement up,
And bury me alive.
Aim. Heart-breaking horror!
Osm. Then Garcia shall lie panting on thy bosom,
Luxurious revelling amidst thy charms;
And thou perforce must yield, and aid his transport.
Hell! hell! have I not cause to rage and rave?
What are all racks, and wheels, and whips to this?
Are they not soothing softness, sinking case,
And wafting air to this! O my Almeria!
What do the damned endure, but to despair,
But knowing Heaven, to know it lost for ever?
Aim. O, I am struck; thy words are bolts of ice,
Which shot into my breast, now melt and chill me.
I chatter, shake, and faint, with thrilling fears.
No, hold me not—O let us not support,