Olga monologue (Act 2) — Demetrius: A Play

Dost thou still mourn thy son--still, still lament The sovereignty which thou has lost? Does time, Which pours a balm on every wounded heart, Lose all its potency with thee alone? Thou wert the empress of this mighty realm, The mother of a blooming son. He was Snatched from thee by a dreadful destiny; Into this dreary convent wert thou thrust, Here on the verge of habitable earth. Full sixteen times since that disastrous day The face of nature hath renewed its youth; Still have I seen no change come over thine, That looked a grave amid a blooming world. Thou'rt like some moonless image, carved in stone By sculptor's chisel, that doth ever keep The selfsame fixed unalterable mien.