He, thou seest here, no longer is that Carlos,
Who took his leave of thee in Alcala,
Who in the fervor of a youthful heart,
Resolved, at some no distant time, to wake
The golden age in Spain! Oh, the conceit,
Though but a child's, was yet divinely fair!
Those dreams are past!

MARQUIS.
Said you, those dreams, my prince!
And were they only dreams?

CARLOS.
Oh, let me weep,
Upon thy bosom weep these burning tears,
My only friend! Not one have I--not one--
In the wide circuit of this earth,--not one
Far as the sceptre of my sire extends,
Far as the navies bear the flag of Spain,
There is no spot--none--none, where I dare yield
An outlet to my tears, save only this.
I charge thee, Roderigo! Oh, by all
The hopes we both do entertain of heaven,
Cast me not off from thee, my friend, my friend!
[POSA bends over him in silent emotion.
Look on me, Posa, as an orphan child,
Found near the throne, and nurtured by thy love.
Indeed, I know not what a father is.
I am a monarch's son. Oh, were it so,
As my heart tells me that it surely is,