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No more than this; this was my worst rebuke. He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head, Though many ladies strove to win his love. He was both sire and mother to his child, Gentle as her I lost. Then for his sake I'll willingly endure The present misery. O my Romiero! Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day?— Absent all night! To what a state of passion His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind! Alas, alas! 't is his infirmity.

My dear Zorada! dear, dear wife! thy pardon: I crave it on my knees. O pardon one Who has offended from excess of love. I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee, With more than admiration look'd; but, Oh! To think that thy pure mind could e'er be moved To aught which blessed saints might not approve, Was monstrous, vile—yea a most vile suggestion— Though all the while 'twas an offence of love. Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou may'st. I have but now discover'd what my fears—

Fears! What hast thou discover'd?