Chastelard Monologue from Chastelard, a Tragedy

From Chastelard, a Tragedy by Algernon Charles Swinburne

male · anguished · 48 sec

This is pure grief; The shadow of your pity for my death, Mere foolishness of pity: all sweet moods Throw out such little shadows of themselves, Leave such light fears behind. You, die like me? Stretch your throat out that I may kiss all round Where mine shall be cut through: suppose my mouth The axe-edge to bite so sweet a throat in twain With bitter iron, should not it turn soft As lip is soft to lip? (QUEEN: I am quite sure I shall die sadly some day, Chastelard; I am quite certain.) Do not think such things; Lest all my next world's memories of you be As heavy as this thought.

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