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?