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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 182 pages of information about Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works.

Bal.  ’Tis hushed and all is still!

Pol.  All is not still.

Bal.  Let us go down.

Pol.  Go down, Baldazzar, go!

Bal.  The hour is growing late—­the Duke awaits us,—­
                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
                  Below.  What ails thee, Earl Politian?

Voice
(distinctly).  “Who have loved thee so long,
                  In wealth and woe among,
                  And is thy heart so strong? 
                  Say nay! say nay!”

Bal.  Let us descend!—­’tis time.  Politian, give
                  These fancies to the wind.  Remember, pray,
                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
                  Unto the Duke.  Arouse thee! and remember!

Pol.  Remember?  I do.  Lead on!  I do remember.
               (going). 
                  Let us descend.  Believe me I would give,
                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—­
                  “To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
                  Once more that silent tongue.”

Bal.  Let me beg you, sir,
                  Descend with me—­the Duke may be offended. 
                  Let us go down, I pray you.

Voice (loudly). Say nay!—­say nay!

Pol. (aside).  ’Tis strange!—­’tis very strange—­methought
                     the voice
                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
             (Approaching the window)
                  Sweet voice!  I heed thee, and will surely stay. 
                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
                  Still will I not descend.  Baldazzar, make
                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
                  I go not down to-night.

Bal.  Your lordship’s pleasure
                  Shall be attended to.  Good-night, Politian.

Pol.  Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV.

The Gardens of a Palace—­Moonlight.  LALAGE and POLITIAN.

Lalage.  And dost thou speak of love
                  To me, Politian?—­dost thou speak of love
                  To Lalage?—­ah woe—­ah woe is me! 
                  This mockery is most cruel—­most cruel indeed!

Politian.  Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—­thy bitter tears
                  Will madden me.  Oh, mourn not, Lalage—­
                  Be comforted!  I know—­I know it all,
                  And still I speak of love.  Look at me, brightest,

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