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As a false faith. I have believed true love Of such a noble, high, confiding nature, That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust. 'T were agony for me to think thee false; But till thou front me with a rival—yea, Till thine own words have own'd that thou art faithless— I will believe thee true.

Believe, believe it! and on these dear hands, A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature With ev'n the slightest movement of suspicion. Dost thou relent, Zorada? Dost thou love me?

Indeed I do; have I not often said it? And yet, it seems, thou did'st mistrust my words.

Fy on that gibe! let me have perfect pardon.

Thou art forgiven. Now; art thou satisfied?

I were a Tartar else, or sullen Turk. Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife! O the soft touch of this dear hand thrills through me, So dear! as dear as when thou first wert mine.