(Rosinberg points to the body without speaking; Victoria shrieks out, and falls into the arms of Isabella.)
Isab. Ah, my sweet gentle mistress! this will kill thee.
Vict. (recovering,) Unloose thy hold, and let me look upon him.
O! horrid, horrid sight! my ruin'd Basil!
Is this the sad reward of all thy love?
O! I have murder'd thee!
(Kneels down by the body, and bends over it.)
These wasted streams of life! this bloody wound!
(Laying her hand upon his heart.)
Is there no breathing here? all still! all cold!
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again,
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee,
In spite of all reproach. Alas! alas!
A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid,
And dost not hear my call—
Ros. No, madam; now your pity comes too late.
Vict. Dost thou upbraid me? O! I have deserv'd it?
Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid;
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is, in gayer scenes,
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze,
And play the airy goddess of the day,
Thine eye, perchance, amidst the observing crowd,
Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend,
And then it will upbraid.
Vict. No, never, never? thus it shall not be.
