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Ah me! unequal are the lots in life.

More nearly are they balanced than we deem; The outward life shows not the life within. I am about to welcome in these walls The Count Castruccio, and he is received As the affianced lover of my daughter; The crowd will only see the pomp and power, And know not how the irrevocable past Rises in all its darkness on my soul. I hate the Castrucani's iron house.

Hate them, my lord?

Is it the sadness in those gentle eyes That suits my mood? but in thee, my fair child, Is that which, winning on my confidence, Soothes the old sorrow which it seems to share. Since that first hour, when but a trembling girl I met thee flying from the Florentines, My heart warm'd to thee as thou wert my own. Perhaps it is that in thy face and voice There is a touch that brings again the face, The voice, that once made heaven on earth to me. 'Twas but a dream of youth!

Can such dreams pass?

Oh, never wholly can they be forgotten: