SCENE II. A royal apartment, lighted only by the moon thro' the high arched windows. Enter Ethwald as if just risen from bed, loose and disordered, but bearing a drawn sword in his hand.
Ethw. Still must this heavy closeness thus oppress me?
Will no fresh stream of air breathe on my brow,
And ruffle for a while this stilly gloom?
O night, when good men rest, and infants sleep!
Thou art to me no season of repose,
But a fear'd time of waking more intense,
Of life more keen, of misery more palpable.
My rest must be when the broad sun doth glare;
When armour rings and men walk to and fro;
Like a tir'd hound stretch'd in the busy hall,
I needs must lie; night will not cradle me.
(looking up anxiously to the windows.)
What, looks the moon still thro' that lofty arch?
Will't ne'er be morn?
If that again in strength
I led mine army on the bold career
So surely shapen in my fancy's eye,
I might again have joy; but in these towers,
Around, beneath me, hateful dungeons yawn,
In everyone of which some being lives
To curse me. Yea, Selred and Ethelbert,
My father's son and my youth's oracle,
Ye too are found with those, who raise to heaven
The prisoner's prayer against my hated head.
