If yet upon the dial of your life
Her sun mark out the short sweet hours of joy,
And all too swiftly on the shadows glide--
If yet you prize the loving heart you hold,
From this most mad delusion waken up,
That blindly blights her whom it seeks to bless;
Cease your Utopian and unsafe essays,
And rather turn your studious care to call
The fading roses back into her cheeks,
And shed health's gladness on her feeble frame;
Reflect whilst yet you may, lest late Remorse
Stalk, ghost-like, through the chambers of your soul,
Haunting their gloomy void for evermore.

[_Exeunt Maurice and Roger_.



SCENE II.--_The Same_.


ORAN.


ORAN.

Not love her! O my God! thou knowest me--
Thou, looking through me as the sun at noon
That searches through the being of the world--
Thou setting life against thy glory light,