ACT III.
Scene I.—Moonlight. A garden in the rear of Mazarini's house.
Enter Mazarini.
Maz. This is a glorious night! the stars are out
In hosts innumerable; but the moon,
In her resplendent brilliancy, so dims their light
They scarce can be distinguished, but all blend
Into one paly maze of fretted gold.
Beautiful! How glorious is our earth,
How full of loveliness and melody!
The breeze comes laden with the rich perfume
Of gardens, filled with the luscious fruits,
And flowers steeped in night's extracting dew;
While every swell of its low, musical breath,
Sweeps a more earnest gush of melody
From nature's thousand lyres. O that man
Should live in such a world of loveliness,
Yet bearing in his heart such hideous forms
Of darkness and wild discord. Now the past
Is in a torrent rushing o'er my soul:
The past, with its bright pages and its dark—
And darker some, and gloomier than Hades.
Viola! Viola! how my soul worshiped thee!
How wildly beautiful thou wert in feature—
How wild, and sweet, and carol-like thy voice,
Whose charm first waked the passions of a heart
That burned in its unquenched, unquenchable fires,
Till naught was left but ashes. Even now
I see thee as thou wert—so innocent!
But my vain love of flattery and applause
Forced thee upon the stage. How the world stared!
As if their greedy eyes would have devoured thee;
And how they shouted forth their mad applause,
