Go forth, like a poor, friendless, banish'd man,

   To gnaw my heart in cold obscurity!

   Thou weak adviser! Should I take thy counsel,

   Thy tongue would first upbraid—thy spirit scorn me.

 Countess. No, on my soul!—Is Narbonne all the world?

   My country is where thou art; place is little:

   The sun will shine, the earth produce its fruits,

   Cheerful, and plenteously, where'er we wander.

   In humbler walks, bless'd with my child and thee.

[pg 17]

[pg 17]

   I'd think it Eden in some lonely vale,

   Nor heave one sigh for these proud battlements.

 Count. Such flowery softness suits not matron lips.

   But thou hast mighty reasons for thy prayer:

   They should be mighty reasons, to persuade

   Their rightful lord to leave his large possessions,

   A soldier challeng'd, to decline the combat.

 Countess. And are not prodigies, then, mighty reasons?

   The owl mistakes his season, in broad day

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