My fury, too, shall gain
A novel kind of vengeance when thou'rt slain,
Remaining satisfied
That Philip, too, by the same stroke has died,
If in thy heart he lived; and then mine ire
Will need no victim more except thy sire.
Through thee first came
My first disgrace, the cause of all my shame,
And so the first of all
On thee my vengeful strokes shall furious fall.
POLONIA. Ah me! my fate pursuing,
I have but only worked my own undoing,
Like to the worm that by its subtle art
Spins its own grave. Hast thou a human heart?
LUIS. I am a demon. So to prove it, die.
Thus --
POLONIA. God of Patrick, listen to my cry!
[He stabs her several times, and she falls within.
LUIS. She fell on flowers, there sowing
Both lives and horrors in her blood outflowing.
Thus now with greater ease
I can escape, and carry o'er the seas,
In many a gem and chain,
Treasure enough to make me rich in Spain,
Until so changed by time,
Disguised by wandering in a foreign clime,
I may return to reap
My vengeance; for a wrong doth never sleep.
But whither do I stray,
Treading the shades of death in this dark way?
My path is lost: I go
Whither I do not know;
Perchance escaping from my prison bands
To fall again into my tyrant's hands.
If the dark night doth not my sight deceive,
Yonder a rustic cabin I perceive.
Yes, I am right. I'll knock; I can't much err,
They'll know the way.
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