Pedro the Cruel
Her gilded book of Hours. What, does she pray,
And will her prayers be heard? Oh, I can see her
Queening it like some infidel enchantress
That Moorish stories tell of, gliding in
'Twix yonder crimson hangings with soft feet
And waving hence with her profane fair hand
Pedro's despairing angel. Poor fond boy!
Thou wilt not thank me; yet indeed thou shouldst,
For what I mean to do—give death to her
Whose life makes Pedro hated. Aye, I mean it,
E'en if my soul should go to hell for that,
As surely I believe 'twill go to heaven
For doing God good service.
And will her prayers be heard? Oh, I can see her
Queening it like some infidel enchantress
That Moorish stories tell of, gliding in
'Twix yonder crimson hangings with soft feet
And waving hence with her profane fair hand
Pedro's despairing angel. Poor fond boy!
Thou wilt not thank me; yet indeed thou shouldst,
For what I mean to do—give death to her
Whose life makes Pedro hated. Aye, I mean it,
E'en if my soul should go to hell for that,
As surely I believe 'twill go to heaven
For doing God good service.
Enter Maria
Maria, My Pedro!—Ah!—
You have some petition doubtless. Pray you sit.
I think that you are weary,
Dol. I am sad,
And 'tis you make me so, you dangerous lady.
Maria. I see that you mistake me for some other.
Whom do you seek, then?
Dol. I mistake you? No!
Oh, think not but I knew you at a glance.
Maria. Tell me who are you, then?
You have some petition doubtless. Pray you sit.
I think that you are weary,
Dol. I am sad,
And 'tis you make me so, you dangerous lady.
Maria. I see that you mistake me for some other.
Whom do you seek, then?
Dol. I mistake you? No!
Oh, think not but I knew you at a glance.
Maria. Tell me who are you, then?
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