I am not certain yet she will not come; For I can feel her hand's heat still in mine, Past doubting of, and see her brows half draw, And half a light in the eyes. If she come not, I am no worse than he that dies to-night. This two years' patience gets an end at least, Whichever way I am well done with it. How hard the thin sweet moon is, split and laced And latticed over, just a stray of it Catching and clinging at a strip of wall, Hardly a hand's breadth. Did she turn indeed In going out? not to catch up her gown The page let slip, but to keep sight of me? There was a soft small stir beneath her eyes Hard to put on, a quivering of her blood That knew of the old nights watched out wakefully. Those measures of her dancing too were changed-- More swift and with more eager stops at whiles And rapid pauses where breath failed her lips. (Enter MARY BEATON.) O, she is come: if you be she indeed Let me but hold your hand; what, no word yet? You turn and kiss me without word; O sweet, If you will slay me be not over quick, Kill me with some slow heavy kiss that plucks The heart out at the lips. Alas! Sweet love, Give me some old sweet word to kiss away. Is it a jest? for I can feel your hair Touch me--I may embrace your body too? I know you well enough without sweet words. How should one make you speak? This is not she. Come in the light; nay, let me see your eyes. Ah, you it is? what have I done to you? And do you look now to be slain for this That you twist back and shudder like one stabbed?

Chastelard Monologue from Chastelard, a Tragedy

Rehearse Chastelard's monologue