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Isabel.
We must indulge her fancy, Julian.
Repose beside me on this turf; my head
Has sought its dearest pillow on thy breast;
My Veronica feasts her gentle eyes
Upon her fragile treasures: Come now, Love,
Tax thy invention, or thy memory,
With such a tale as suits this hour of bliss.
Julian.
Shall it be framed of love, or war—the lay
Of some soft Troubadour, or armed Knight?
Or shall I steal from Tasso's flowing verse
The story of the warrior maid, or sing
Armida's Paradise less fair than this?
The tower of Ugolino were a tale
Too dark and horrible——
I know not why, but gloomy images
Alone present themselves, unnatural
And fierce revenge, and disappointed love—
But true love, sweet, is seldom fortunate.
