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 practiced 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 degrees--
They find no new expression 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?
