(Exit Pauline.)

SEV.
Where am I, Fabian? Has the crack of doom
Turned heaven to hell? made life a living tomb?
Nearer and dearer ever--but to go!
The prize within my grasp must I o'erthrow?
This--Fortune's brimming cup, with poison filled,
She bids me drain;--so new-born hope is killed.
Before I proffer aught, I am refused;
Thus sad, amazed, ashamed, in doubt, abused,
I see the ghost I laid, to life revive,
The more seductive still the more I strive.
Ah! must a woman, sunk in deep despair,
Teach me that shame is base, and honour fair?
And while I madly shriek, 'O love, be kind!'
Pauline, death-stricken, keeps an equal mind!
O generous, but stern! Must these dear eyes,
Because I love them, o'er love tyrannise?
'Tis not enough to lose thee, I must give
My aid--to make my faithless rival live!
'Tis not enough: his death I would not plan,
But I must save him! bless where I would ban!

FABIAN.
Ah, let the whole crew light one funeral pyre;
Yes, let the daughter perish with her sire!
This curs'd Armenian is one hornet's nest--
Crush all, then sail for Rome, ah! this were best!