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You have but rightly curb'd a wanton spirit, Which makes me too, neglectful of respect. Let us be friends, and think of this no more.

Freb. Ay, let it rest with the departed shades Of things which are no more; whilst lovely concord, Follow'd by friendship sweet, and firm esteem, Your future days enrich. O heavenly friendship! Thou dost exalt the sluggish souls of men, By thee conjoin'd, to great and glorious deeds; As two dark clouds, when mixd in middle air, The vivid lightning's flash, and roar sublime. Talk not of what is past, but future love.

''De Mon. (With dignity.)'' No, Freberg, no, it must not. (To Rezenvelt.) No, my lord. I will not offer you an hand of concord And poorly hide the motives which constrain me. I would that, not alone these present friends, But ev'ry soul in Amberg were assembled, That I, before them all, might here declare I owe my spared life to your forbearance. (Holding out his hand.) Take this from one who boasts no feeling warmth, But never will deceive.

Rez. Away with hands! I'll have thee to my breast. Thou art, upon my faith, a noble spirit!

''De Mon. (Shrinking back from him.)'' Nay, if you please, I am not so prepar'd—