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The hand of man, the brand of public shame, Falls on the guilty head, by Heaven's appointment. Thou riskest the salvation of thy soul In aiding my escape; and for my life, If of thy love bereft, I care not whether The headsman's axe, or the slow hand of nature, Shall rid me of it. Nay; the first were best.

O no! upon my knees I do conjure thee. (Attempting to kneel, but prevented by him.) If I offend in this, Heaven will forgive me: For, oh! if thou art lost, I am most wretched. My misery or peace hangs on thy life; Therefore, upon my bended knees, I beg. (Sinking from his hold to the ground.) 'Tis for myself I plead; fly instantly.

Ah dear, dear Mencia! And car'st thou thus, For a foul criminal,—a man of blood? What, then, had been thy care—may I not say— What, then, had been thy love,—had he been innocent?

Alas, alas! hadst thou been innocent, I had defied the world, with all its lures, Again to sever us. Yet, as thou art