Poems of Passion — 24 - Isaura

ISAURA.

Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?

"What play?"

Why, this old play of winning hearts!

Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way: 'Tis all in vain--I know thee and thine arts.

Let us be frank, Isaura.

I have made A study of thee; and while I admire The practised skill with which thy plans are laid, I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.

Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!

When overlong the season runs, I find Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death, After a time do pall upon my mind.

Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes To read the story thou hast read so oft-- Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs, Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?

Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee, The scene that follows?

Hearts are much the same;

The loves of men but vary in degree-- They find no new expressions for the flame.

Thou must know all they utter ere they speak, As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays.

Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak?

I think thou must grow weary of their ways.

I pity thee, Isaura!

I would be The humblest maiden with her dream untold Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee, And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.

I pity thee; for now, let come what may, Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all.

Wherewith can salt be salted?

And what way Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?