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         I will not rise. Here will I kneel forever,

         Here will I lie enchanted at your feet,

         And grow to the dear ground you tread on?

         Madman! To what rude boldness my indulgence leads!

         Know you, it is the queen, your mother, sir,

         Whom you address in such presumptuous strain?

         Know, that myself will to the king report

         This bold intrusion —

                     And that I must die!

         Let them come here, and drag me to the scaffold!

         A moment spent in paradise like this

         Is not too dearly purchased by a life.

         But then your queen?

                    O God, I'll go, I'll go!

         Can I refuse to bend to that appeal?

         I am your very plaything. Mother, mother,

         A sign, a transient glance, one broken word

         From those dear lips can bid me live or die.

         What would you more? Is there beneath the sun

         One thing I would not haste to sacrifice

         To meet your lightest wish?

                        Then fly!

                             God!

         With tears I do conjure you, Carlos, fly!

         I ask no more. O fly! before my court,

         My guards, detecting us alone together,

         Bear the dread tidings to your father's ear.

         I bide my doom, or be it life or death.

         Have I staked every hope on this one moment,

         Which gives thee to me thus at length alone,

         That idle fears should balk me of my purpose?

         No, queen! The world may round its axis roll

         A hundred thousand times, ere chance again

         Yield to my prayers a moment such as this.

         It never shall to all eternity.

         Unhappy man! What would you ask of me?

         Heaven is my witness, queen, how I have struggled,

         Struggled as mortal never did before,

         But all in vain! My manhood fails – I yield.

         No more of this – for my sake – for my peace.

         You were mine own, – in face of all the world, —

         Affianced to me by two mighty crowns,

         By heaven and nature plighted as my bride,

         But Philip, cruel Philip, stole you from me!

         He is your father?

                   And he is your husband!

         And gives to you for an inheritance,

         The mightiest monarchy in all the world.

         And you, as mother!

                    Mighty heavens! You rave!

         And is he even conscious of his treasure?

         Hath he a heart to feel and value yours?

         I'll not complain – no, no, I will forget,

         How happy, past all utterance, I might

         Have been with you, – if he were only so.

         But he is not – there, there, the anguish lies!

         He is not, and he never – never can be.

         Oh, you have robbed me of my paradise,

         Only to blast it in King Philip's arms!

         Horrible thought!

                   Oh, yes, right well I know

         Who 'twas that knit this ill-starred marriage up.

         I know how Philip loves, and how he wooed.

         What are you in this kingdom – tell me, what?

         Regent, belike! Oh, no! If such you were,

         How could fell Alvas act their murderous deeds,

         Or Flanders bleed a martyr for her faith?

         Are you even Philip's wife? Impossible, —

         Beyond belief. A wife doth still possess

         Her husband's heart. To whom doth his belong?

         If ever, perchance, in some hot feverish mood,

         He yields to gentler impulse, begs he not

         Forgiveness of his sceptre and gray hairs?

         Who told you that my lot, at Philip's side

         Was one for men to pity?

                      My own heart!

         Which feels, with burning pangs, how at my side

         It had been to be envied.

                       Thou vain man!

         What if my heart should tell me the reverse?

         How, sir, if Philip's watchful tenderness,

         The looks that silently proclaim his love,

         Touched me more deeply than his haughty son's

         Presumptuous eloquence? What, if an old man's

         Matured esteem —

                  That makes a difference! Then,

         Why then, forgiveness! – I'd no thought of this;

         I had no thought that you could love the king.

         To honor him's my pleasure and my wish.

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