Mask. If wounded in the heart, it is a wound
Which some ungrateful fair-one hath inflicted,
And I may conjure something for thy good.
Bas. Ah! if thou couldst! what must I fool with thee?
Mask. Thou must awhile, and be examin'd too.
What kind of woman did the wicked deed?
Bas. I cannot tell thee. In her presence still
My mind in such a wild delight hath been,
I could not pause to picture out her beauty;
Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair.
Mask. Art thou a soldier, and no weapon bear'st
To send her wound for wound?
Bas. Alas! she shoots from such a hopeless height,
No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far.
None but a prince may dare.
Mask. But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no love.
Bas. I love, and yet in truth I had no hope,
But that she might at least with some good will,
Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindness,
Within her dear remembrance give me place.
This was my all of hope, but it is flown,
For she regards me not; despises, scorns me;
Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart,
That would have bled for her.
(Mask discovering herself to be Victoria, by speaking in her true voice.) O! no, she does not.
