. . .I am not wicked, father; ardent blood Is all my failing;—all my crime is youth;— Wicked I am not—no, in truth, not wicked;— Though many an impulse wild assails my heart, Yet is it still untainted. KING. Ay, 'tis pure— I know it—like thy prayers—— CARLOS. Now, then, or never! We are, for once, alone—the barrier Of courtly form, that severed sire and son Has fallen! Now a golden ray of hope Illumes my soul—a sweet presentment Pervades my heart—and heaven itself inclines, With choirs of joyous angels, to the earth, And full of soft emotion, the thrice blest Looks down upon this great, this glorious scene! Pardon, my father! [He falls on his knees before him. KING. Rise, and leave me. CARLOS. Father! KING (tearing himself from him). This trifling grows. . . Read More