This text comes from The Poetical Works of John Keats, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
Otho. O, my poor boy! My son! My son! My Ludolph!
Have ye no comfort for me, ye physicians
Of the weak body and soul?
Ethelbert.'Tis not in medicine
Either of heaven or earth, to cure, unless
Fit time be chosen to administer.
Otho. A kind forbearance, holy abbot. Come,
Erminia; here, sit by me, gentle girl;
Give me thy hand; hast thou forgiven me?
Erminia. Would I were with the saints to pray for you!
Otho. Why will ye keep me from my darling child?
Physician. Forgive me, but he must not see thy face.
Otho. Is then a father's countenance a Gorgon?
Hath it not comfort in it? Would it not
Console my poor boy cheer him, heal his spirits?
Let me embrace him; let me speak to him;
I will! Who hinders me? Who's Emperor?
Physician. You may not, Sire; 'twould overwhelm him quite,
He is so full of grief and passionate wrath;
Too heavy a sigh would kill him, or do worse.
He must be saved by fine contrivances;
And, most especially, we must keep clear
Out of his sight a father whom he loves;
His heart is full, it can contain no more,
And do its ruddy office.
Ethelbert.Sage advice;
We must endeavor how to ease and slacken
The tight-wound energies of his despair,
Not make them tenser.
Otho.Enough! I hear, I hear.
Yet you were about to advise more,—I listen.
Ethelbert. This learned doctor will agree with me,
That not in the smallest point should he be thwarted,
Or gainsaid by one word; his very motions,
Nods, becks, and hints, should be obey'd with care,
Even on the moment; so his troubled mind
May cure itself.
Physician.There are no other means.
Otho. Open the door; let's hear if all is quiet.
Physician. Beseech you. Sire, forbear.
Erminia.Do, do.
Otho.I command!
Open it straight;—hush!—quiet!—my lost boy!
My miserable child!
Ludolph (indistinctly without). Fill, fill my goblet,—here's a health!
Erminia.O, close the door!
Otho. Let, let me hear his voice; this cannot last;
And fain would I catch up his dying words,
Though my own knell they be! This cannot last!
O let me catch his voice—for lo! I hear
A whisper in this silence that he's dead!
It is so! Gersa?
Enter Gersa.
Physician.Say, how fares the prince?
Gersa. More calm; his features are less wild and flush'd;
Once he complain'd of weariness.
Physician.Indeed!
'Tis good,—'tis good; let him but fall asleep,
That saves him.
Otho.Gersa, watch him like a child;
Ward him from harm,—and bring me better news!
Physician. Humor him to the height. I fear to go;
For should he catch a glimpse of my dull garb,
It might affright him, fill him with suspicion
That we believe him sick, which must not be.
Gersa. I will invent what soothing means I can.
[Exit Gersa.
Physician. This should cheer up your Highness; weariness
Is a good symptom, and most favorable;
It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you, walk forth
Upon the terrace; the refreshing air
Will blow one half of your sad doubts away.
[Exeunt.