'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maaey,
Till the end o' the daae'y
An' the last loaed hoaem.'
_Enter_ HAROLD.
HAROLD.
Not Harold! 'Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!'
Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved.
I told her I should hear her from the grave.
Ay! yonder is her casement. I remember
Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me
Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her
Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat
Thro' every sensual course of that full feast
That leaves but emptiness.
_Song_.
'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maaey,
To the end o' the daae'y
An' the last loaed hoaem.'
HAROLD.
Poor Eva! O my God, if man be only
A willy-nilly current of sensations--
Reaction needs must follow revel--yet--
Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have
Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny?
Remorse then is a part of Destiny,
Nature a liar, making us feel guilty
Of her own faults.
My grandfather--of him
They say, that women--
O this mortal house,
Which we are born into, is haunted by
The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men;
And these take flesh again with our own flesh,
And bring us to confusion.
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