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In timid beauty, after April showers, Then swelling, bursting, spreading its soft leaves To the free air, more fragrant than before. Yes, I am happy, gentle Mencia, In spite of fate, if thou still carest for me.

This is no time for words like these. I dread Ev'n but to look upon thee, wretched man! Take this disguise; it will insure escape. There is a faithful friend who waits without, And by the postern will direct thy flight. Speak not, but throw these weeds about thee quickly; Thou dread'st to look upon me, yet thou comest To save my life—to save a murderer's life?

I said not so in pity of thy state; That bloody deed I know hath been the act Of frenzied passion: in some foreign land Live and repent: Heaven grant thee grace for this! Let not man's hand, the brand of public shame, Be on thy wretched head.