Palicio.

I cannot think of death. Imagination Is barren on that point, and hath no picture;— To be so near should better prick the fancy.— I see a grave—but stand beside the grave ... Nothing.—And yet I am so near.—I judge From this how dizzily deep rides the division ’Twixt this world and the next; tho’ in Time’s face ’Tis thin, ay, more invisibly sharp than is The axe’s edge, which makes it.—Is our life’s stuff So different? All the joys and hopes of earth Wrought of too coarse a fibre to invest An inkling of that other unseen world, Which hath this only entrance? Wherefore my mind Wanders in wasteful contemplation back O’er what I have done, pitifully seeking To wear renewed the robe of those proud deeds, To dream again her disappointed dreams; And over all is Margaret, ever Margaret; Floating before these vain soul-treacherous eyes,— My tempter and tormentor.

Enter Gaoler.