Cyprian monologue — The Wonder-Working Magician

Scarcely o'er earth's wounded bosom Had I the true spell-word uttered, When in the ensuing action, She, of all my dreams the subject, My adored, divine Justina.... But why take the useless trouble, That to tell you know already? I embraced her, would unmuffle Her fair face, when (woe is me!) In her beauty I discovered A gaunt skeleton, a statue, A pale image, a sepulchral Show of death, which in these measured Words thus spoke (even yet I shudder), "Cyprian, such are all the glories Of the world that you so covet."-- To assert, that on thy magic As expressed by me, the burden Of the fault should lie, is vain, For I, point by point, so worked it, That of all its silent symbols There was not a line but somewhere Had its place, of all its spell-words Not one word that was not uttered. Then, 'tis plain thou has deceived me, For though acting as instructed, I but found an empty phantom Where I sought a blissful substance.