Yes; but you do not take into consideration that what amuses you drives me to despair; and that one cannot dissimulate long when one is under the sway of love as true as that which I feel for you. It is cruel to think, dear Julia, that this amusement of yours should deprive me of the few moments during which I could speak to you of my love, and last night I wrote on the subject some verses that I cannot help repeating to you, so true is it that the mania of reciting one's verses is inseparable from the title of a poet: "Iris, too long thou keepst on torture's rack One who obeys thy laws, yet whisp'ring chides In that thou bidst me boast a joy I lack, And hush the sorrow that my bosom hides. Must thy dear eyes, to which I yield my arms, From my sad sighs draw wanton pleasure still? Is't not enough to suffer for thy charms That I must grieve at thy capricious will? This double martyrdom a pain affords Too keen to bear at once; thy deeds, thy words, Work on my wasting heart a cruel doom, Love bids it burn; constraint its life doth chill. If pity soften not thy wayward will, Love, feigned and real, will lead me to the tomb."

Visc Monologue from The Countess of Escarbagnas

Rehearse Visc's monologue