Countess. Sometimes he'd seize my hands, and grasp them close,

   And strain them to his hollow, burning eyes;

   Then falter out, "I am, I am a villain!

   Mild angel, pray for me;—stir not, my child;

   It comes again;—oh, do not leave my side."

   At last, quite spent with mortal agonies,

   His soul went forth—and Heaven have mercy on him!

 Count. Enough! Thy tale has almost iced my blood.

   Let me not think. Hortensia, on thy duty,

   Suffer no breath like this to pass thy lips:

   I will not taint my noble father's honour,

   By vile suspicions, suck'd from nature's dregs,

   And the loose, ravings of distemper'd fancy.

 Countess. Yet, Oh, decline this challenge!

 Count. That, hereafter.

   Mean time, prepare my daughter to receive

   A husband of my choice. Should Godfrey come,

   (Strife might be so prevented) bid her try

   Her beauty's power. Stand thou but neuter, Fate!

   Courage, and art, shall arm me from mankind.

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