Isaura.

        Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?
    "What play?" Why, this old play of winning hearts!
        Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way:
    'Tis all in vain - I know thee and thine arts.

        Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made
    A study of thee; and while I admire
        The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,
    I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.

        Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!
    When overlong the season runs, I find
        Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death,
    After a time do pall upon my mind.

        Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes
    To read the story thou hast read so oft -
        Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs,
    Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?

        Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee,
    The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same;
        The loves of men but vary in degree -
    They find no new expressions for the flame.

        Thou must know all they utter ere they speak,
    As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays.
        Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak?
    I think thou must grow weary of their ways.

        I pity thee, Isaura! I would be
    The humblest maiden with her dream untold
        Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee,
    And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.

        I pity thee; for now, let come what may,
    Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all.
        Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way
    Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?