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According with the fancy's wild conceptions! So are the brains of sick and frenzied men Stored with unreal and strange imaginations. To which the firm conviction of my mind So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power To fix this misery on me? This is madness!

Is't thee, Sophera?

Yes, 'tis only me.

Is every decent office of respect Done to the corse?

Yes, nought has been omitted.

'Tis well; but what detains the good confessor? I wish'd to see him.

He stay'd but till his wretched penitent Had breath'd his last, and quickly left the castle.

He is in haste, methinks; 'tis somewhat strange. Why look'st thou on me with that fearful eye?