My Adriana! victim that thou art! Thy lover should have been some gentle youth In gay attire, with laughter on his lips, Who'd nestle in thy bosom all night long, Such is what should be, and behold what is! A man of many cares new taken up, To whom there's nothing more can come in life One who betakes him to his nuptial bed, His thoughts still busy with the watch and ward, And if his love breathe louder than her wont, Starts from his sleep, and thinks the bells ring backwards: A man begirt with eighty thousand swords, Scarce knowing which are in the hands of friends And which against him; such a sort of man Thy lover is his fate for life or death Link'd to a cause which some deem desperate. Chief Captain of the White-Hoods and of Ghent. Nay! is it even so! CLARA. ARTEVELDE. Even so it is. ADRIANA. And thou art captain of these savages! And thou wilt trample with them through the blood Of fellow-citizens-for what care they? ARTEVELDE. Not so. I purpose but to lead them where I will. ADRIANA. Then they will turn upon thee; never yet ARTEVELDE. That is the patience they've to learn from me. By help whereof I hope to rein them round. CLARA. Oh, they will murder thee! ARTEVELDE. It may be so. But I hope better things-yet this is sure, ADRIANA. Alas! and is it come to this!-Oh God! ARTEVELDE. This I foresaw, and things have fallen out No worse than I forwarn'd thee that they might. For I feel that within me which accords With what I have to do. The field is fair, And I have no perplexity or cloud Upon my vision. Every thing is clear. And take this with thee for thy comfort too- With answerable skill to plant his steps. Men in their places are the men that stand, For though full many a care from this time forth That this portends a troubled fate for thee. ADRIANA. For me?-Oh never vex thy heart for that; Nor fancy for me fears I have not-No, I'll follow thee through sunshine and through storm; In thy afflictions, should they fall upon thee, In all the perils which must now press round thee, ARTEVELDE. The last of love for thee were last of all That through this passage of mortality Lights on my soul to heaven. All will be well. Love will be with thee, breathing his native air, D'ARLON. If no discourtesy is meant by this I have but to depart. CLARA. Depart! and wherefore? ARTEVELDE. There's nothing meant but honour, nothing else, Howe'er to rude appearances enforced. When there is peace between the Earl and Ghent "Twill be a joy to me to see again The gallant Lord of Arlon; till that time |