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'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt: Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out His rod and baitless line from morn till noon, Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare A thousand times hath glided, till by force His angry Dame hath dragg'd him from his station. Hope is of such a tough continuous nature, That, waiting thus its natural end, my life Shall to an end wear sadly. Patience, say'st thou! I have too long been patient.

Ter. Then, be it known to thee, despondency Already steals upon her; for she sits not So oft' as she was wont upon the beach, But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence; And when the night is come, less eagerly She now enquires if yet the beacon's light Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess, Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more.

Ul. No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame I do believe some spirit of the night Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear With whisper'd prophecies of good to come.

Ter. In truth my Lord, you do yourself talk strangely; These are wild thoughts.

Ul.Nay, be thou well assur'd, Spell-bound she is: night hath become her day: