And yet 'tis cheerfulness itself to the gloom that enwraps my soul. Follow me to yon churchyard, where corruption preys on the mouldering remnants of mortality, and death holds his fearful banquet-- where shrieks of damned souls delight the listening fiends, and sorrow weeps her fruitless tears into the never-filling urn. Follow me, my son, to where the condition of this world is changed; and God throws off his attributes of mercy--there will I speak to thee in agony, and thou shalt hear with despair. (BOURGOGNINO: Hear! what? I conjure you, father.) Youth! I fear. Youth, thy blood is warm and crimson--thy heart is soft and tender--such natures are alive to human kindness--this warmth of feeling melts my obdurate wisdom. If the frost of age or sorrow's leaden pressure had chilled the springtide vigor of thy spirits --if black congealed blood had closed the avenues of thy heart against the approaches of humanity--then would thy mind be attuned to the language of my grief, and thou wouldst look with admiration on my project. (BOURGOGNINO: I will hear it, and embrace it as my own.) Not so, my son--Verrina will not wound thy heart with it. O Scipio, heavy burdens lie on me. A thought more dark and horrible than night, too vast to be contained within the breast of man! Mark me--my hand alone shall execute the deed; but my mind cannot alone support the weight of it. If I were proud, Scipio, I might say greatness unshared is torture. It was a burden to the Deity himself, and he created angels to partake his counsels. Hear, Scipio!

Verrina Monologue from Fiesco; or, the Genoese Conspiracy: A Tragedy

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