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?