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My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion, Which leads not to that humble true repentance Our holy church enjoins.

Or had I met him as an open foe, With accusation of defiance fairly Preceding vengeance; but unheard, i' th' dark! Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers Of my brave fathers, men without reproach! Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust What bears the honour'd semblance of their son, Although unmeet to bear the human form.

Nay, nay! I pray forbear; this violent grief For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable. Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance. The sufferings of the body will relieve The suff'rings of the mind.

See here, short while, in agony of thought, Pacing the armory where hangs the mail Which Juen wore, when in Tolosa's field We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side; It was his gift, which I did beg of him,