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Your wine has cheer'd you to a gibing humour; You are severe, my Lord, on this poor world.

If I have said amiss, ev'n let it pass: A foolish rev'ller may at random speak: Who heeds his idle words?—Music strike up. What dost thou want?

A fearful thing has happened; And to my Lord, or Donna Leonora, It may not hastily be told.

What is't?

A murder'd body near the Castle lies, But newly slain; and they who found it swear (For well they know his form and countenance). It is Don Juen's body.

(Who has stolen near them to listen.) Don Juen's body, said'st thou? Is he dead?