Chastelard monologue (Act 1) — Chastelard, a Tragedy

I am not certain yet she will not come; For I can feel her hand's heat still in mine, Past doubting of, and see her brows half draw, And half a light in the eyes. If she come not, I am no worse than he that dies to-night. This two years' patience gets an end at least, Whichever way I am well done with it. How hard the thin sweet moon is, split and laced And latticed over, just a stray of it Catching and clinging at a strip of wall, Hardly a hand's breadth. Did she turn indeed In going out? not to catch up her gown The page let slip, but to keep sight of me? There was a soft small stir beneath her eyes Hard to put on, a quivering of her blood That knew of the old nights watched out wakefully. Those measures of her dancing too were changed-- More swift and with more eager stops at whiles And rapid pauses where breath failed her lips.