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No, dearest child! let death come when it will, I'll now receive it thankfully. Romiero, Thou wretched murd'rer of thy spotless wife— Romiero de Cardona !

I know thee;—yes, I know what I have done.

Forbear such wild and frantic sorrow now, And speak to her while she is sensible, And can receive thy words. She looks on thee, And looks imploringly.

Zorada, my Zorada! spotless saint! I loved thee far beyond all earthly things, But demons have been dealing with my soul, And I have been thy tyrant and thy butcher, A wretch bereft of reason.

She makes a sign as if she fain would speak, To moisten those dear lips and cool that brow. [Exit. She strives again to speak.