Assisted by some cunning practisers,

   Model'd that deed, which, barring Godfrey's right,

   And other claims from kindred, nam'd Count Raymond

   Lord of these fair possessions.

 Count. Ha! I have it;

   'Tis Godfrey's calumny; he has coin'd this lie;

   And his late visit to the Holy Land,

   No doubt, has furnish'd likelihood of proof,

   To give his fiction colour.

 Fab. Sure, 'tis so.

 Count. He, too, has forg'd this idle prophecy,

   (To shake me with false terrors) this prediction,

   Which, but to think of, us'd to freeze my veins;

   "That no descendant from my father's loins,

   Should live to see a grandson; nor Heaven's wrath

   Cease to afflict us, till Alphonso's heir

   Succeeded to his just inheritance."

   Hence superstition mines my tottering state,

   Loosens my vassals' faith, and turns their tears,

   Which else would fall for my calamities,

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