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Yes, I comprehend thee.

Oh! but that look, that air, that flush of anger Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face, Speak not of pardon. (She turns away, and he fallows her.) I have much offended. But he who like offence hath ne'er committed: Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear, Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul Of every generous feeling; he who never Hath, in that state of torture, watch'd her face Till ev'n the traits of saintly innocence Have worn the shade of conscious guilt; who never Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake Cursed all the sex;—may, as the world conceives. Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband; But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it Ev'n to perdition, he has loved but slightly— Loved with a love, compared to what I feel, As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie, To the surcharged unquenchable volcano.

What creed is this which thy perturbed mind Repeats so boldly? Good my Lord, discard it,