You jest, my prince. All Spain adores its queen. Shall it be thought that you, of all the world, Alone should view her with the eyes of hate-- Gaze on her charms, and yet be coldly wise? How, prince? The loveliest lady of her time, A queen withal, and once your own betrothed? No, no, impossible--it cannot be! Where all men love, you surely cannot hate. Carlos could never so belie himself. I prithee, prince, take heed she do not learn That she hath lost her son's regard. The news Would pain her deeply. (CARLOS: Ay, sir! think you so?) Your highness doubtless will remember how, At the late tournament in Saragossa, A lance's splinter struck our gracious sire. The queen, attended by her ladies, sat High in the centre gallery of the palace, And looked upon the fight. A cry arose, "The king! he bleeds!" Soon through the general din, A rising murmur strikes upon her ear. "The prince--the prince!" she cries, and forward rushed, As though to leap down from the balcony, When a voice answered, "No, the king himself!" "Then send for his physicians!" she replied, And straight regained her former self-composure. [After a short pause. But you seem wrapped in thought?

Domingo Monologue from Don Carlos: A Play

Rehearse Domingo's monologue