_Inis._ This is the hermit's cave; and see, my liege, Orsino's self.
_Alfon._ [_Starting back._] No, no, that living spectre Is not my gallant friend. I seek in vain The full cheek's healthful glow, the eye of fire, The martial mein, proud gait, and limbs Herculean! Oh! is that deathlike form indeed Orsino?
_Orsi._ Never to see them more! never, no never! Wife, child, joy, hope, all gone!
_Alfon._ That voice! Oh! Heaven, Too well I know that voice!--How grief has changed him! I'll speak, yet dread----Retire [Inis, _&c. withdraw_.] Look up Orsino.
[_Seizing a lance which rests against the cavern, and putting himself in a posture of defence_]
Wretch, thy life--[_Staggering back._] Strengthen me, heaven! 'Tis he? the king himself!
_Alfon._ [_Offering to take his hand._] Thy friend!
_Orsi._ [_Recovering himself, and drawing back his hand._] Friend! Friend!---- I've none!-- [_Coldly._]
_Orsi._ Never had but one, And he--! Sir, though a king, you'd shrink to hear How that friend used me!
_Orsi._ What need of words? I'm found, I'm in your power, And you may torture me e'en how you list. Where are your chains? these are the self-same arms Which bore them ten long years, nor doubt their weighing Heavy as ever! These same eyes, which bathed So oft with bitterest tears your dungeon-grate, Have streams not yet exhausted! and these lips Can still with shrieks make the Black Tower re-echo, Which heard my voice so long in frantic anguish Rave of my wife and child, and curse Alfonso! Lead on, Sir! I'm your prisoner!
_Alfon._ Not for worlds Would I but harm one hair of thine!--Nay, hear me! And learn, most wronged Orsino, thy clear innocence Is now well known to all.
_Orsi._ Ay? Nay, I care not Who thinks me innocent! I know myself so-- Was this your business, Sir? 'Tis done! Farewell.
_Alfon._ Oh! part not from me thus! I fain would say----
_Alfon._ Deeply, most deeply! But wounding thine, hurt my own heart no less, Where none has filled thy place: 'tis thine, still thine-- And if my court----
_Orsi._ What should I there? No, no, Sir! Sorrow has crazed my wits; long cramped by fetters My arm sinks powerless; and my wasted limbs, Palsied by dungeon-damps, would bend and totter Beneath yon armour's weight, once borne so lightly! Then what should I at court? I cannot head Your troops, nor guide your councils; leave me, leave me, You cannot use me further!