by Percy Bysshe Shelley
SCENE 5.2:
SCENE 5.4:

SCENE 5.3:




 BERNARDO: How gently slumber rests upon her face, Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. After such torments as she bore last night, How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay me! Methinks that I shall never sleep again. But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest From this sweet folded flower, thus...wake, awake! What, sister, canst thou sleep? 
 BEATRICE [AWAKING]: I was just dreaming That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest This cell seems like a kind of Paradise After our father's presence. 
 BERNARDO: Dear, dear sister, Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God! How shall I tell? 
 BEATRICE: What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother? 
 BERNARDO: Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst I stand considering what I have to say My heart will break. 
 BEATRICE: See now, thou mak'st me weep: How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child, If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. 
 BERNARDO: They have confessed; they could endure no more The tortures... 
 BEATRICE: Ha! What was there to confess? They must have told some weak and wicked lie To flatter their tormentors. Have they said That they were guilty? O white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not! [ENTER JUDGE WITH LUCRETIA AND GIACOMO, GUARDED.] Ignoble hearts! For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? And that eternal honour which should live Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, Changed to a mockery and a byword? What! Will you give up these bodies to be dragged At horses' heels, so that our hair should sweep The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, Who, that they may make our calamity Their worship and their spectacle, will leave The churches and the theatres as void As their own hearts? Shall the light multitude Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity, Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, Upon us as we pass to pass away, And leave...what memory of our having been? Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou, Who wert a mother to the parentless, Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee! Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, And let us each be silent as a corpse; It soon will be as soft as any grave. 'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear Makes the rack cruel. 
 GIACOMO: They will tear the truth Even from thee at last, those cruel pains: For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. 
 LUCRETIA: Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; And after death, God is our judge, not they; He will have mercy on us. 
 BERNARDO: If indeed It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; And then the Pope will surely pardon you, And all be well. 
 JUDGE: Confess, or I will warp Your limbs with such keen tortures... 
 BEATRICE: Tortures! Turn The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel! Torture your dog, that he may tell when last He lapped the blood his master shed...not me! My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul, Which weeps within tears as of burning gall To see, in this ill world where none are true, My kindred false to their deserted selves. And with considering all the wretched life Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, And what slaves these; and what a world we make, The oppressor and the oppressed...such pangs compel My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? 
 JUDGE: Art thou not guilty of thy father's death? 
 BEATRICE: Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging God That He permitted such an act as that Which I have suffered, and which He beheld; Made it unutterable, and took from it All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, But that which thou hast called my father's death? Which is or is not what men call a crime, Which either I have done, or have not done; Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, And so an end of all. Now do your will; No other pains shall force another word. 
 JUDGE: She is convicted, but has not confessed. Be it enough. Until their final sentence Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord, Linger not here! 
 BEATRICE: Oh, tear him not away! 
 JUDGE: Guards! do your duty. 
 BERNARDO [EMBRACING BEATRICE]: Oh! would ye divide Body from soul? 
 OFFICER: That is the headsman's business. 
 GIACOMO: Have I confessed? Is it all over now? No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed My father first, and then betrayed my sister; Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pure In this black, guilty world, to that which I So well deserve! My wife! my little ones! Destitute, helpless, and I...Father! God! Canst Thou forgive even the unforgiving, When their full hearts break thus, thus!... 
 LUCRETIA: O my child! To what a dreadful end are we all come! Why did I yield? Why did I not sustain Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved Into these fast and unavailing tears, Which flow and feel not! 
 BEATRICE: What 'twas weak to do, 'Tis weaker to lament, once being done; Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made Our speedy act the angel of His wrath, Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. Let us not think that we shall die for this. Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand, You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up! O dearest Lady, put your gentle head Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: Your eyes look pale, hollow, and overworn, With heaviness of watching and slow grief. Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing, Some outworn and unused monotony, Such as our country gossips sing and spin, Till they almost forget they live: lie down! So, that will do. Have I forgot the words? Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. 
 SONG: False friend, wilt thou smile or weep When my life is laid asleep? Little cares for a smile or a tear, The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! Farewell! Heighho! What is this whispers low? There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; And bitter poison within thy tear. 
 Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, Or if thou couldst mortal be, I would close these eyes of pain; When to wake? Never again. O World! Farewell! Listen to the passing bell! It says, thou and I must part, With a light and a heavy heart.