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Oh pardon me! I mean not to offend— I am too warm—But she of whom I speak Is the dear sister of my earliest love; In noble virtuous worth to none a second: And tho' behind those sable folds were hid As fair a face as ever woman own'd, Still would I say she is as fair as thee. How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng, I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told Her name and lineage! yet within her house, The virgin mother of an orphan race Her dying parents left, this noble woman Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit, Despising all the blandishments of love; Whilst many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd, Or, humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. Forgive, I pray you! O forgive this boasting! In faith! I mean you no discourtesy.

''Jane. (Off her guard, in a soft natural tone of voice.)'' Oh no! nor do me any.

De Mon. What voice speaks now? Withdraw, withdraw this shade! For if thy face bear semblance to thy voice, I'll fall and worship thee. Pray! pray undo!

Rez. Stand off: no hand shall lift this sacred veil.

De Mon. What, dost thou think De Monfort fall'n so low,