Ella. Ah, woe is me! within these castle walls;
Under this very tower in which we are,
There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do hear
But the chill winds that o'er their dungeons howl;
Or the still tinkling of the water-drops
Falling from their dank roofs, in dull succession,
Like the death watch at sick men's beds. Alas!
Whilst you sing cheerly thus, I think of them.
Dwi. Ay, many a diff'rent lot of joy and grief;
Within a little compass may be found.
Under one roof the woeful and the gay
Do oft abide; on the same pillow rest.
And yet, if I may rightly judge, the king
Has but small joy above his wretched thralls.
Last night I listen'd to his restless steps,
As oft he paced his chamber to and fro,
Right o'er my head! and I did hear him utter
Such heavy groans!
I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night
He sees strange things.
All. (speaking together.) O tell us, Dwina! tell us!
Dwi. Out on you all! you hear such foolish tales!
He is himself the ghost that walks the night,
And cannot rest.
