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From this sad state of weakness. If she love him, She'll make him happier far than I could do; And if she love him not, there is good cause That I should pity him; not selfishly On my own misery dwell.—Ay, this should be; But will it be?—Oh, these rebellious tears! Enter, by the other end of the chamber, the Phantom of a beautiful young Woman, which advances a few paces, and then remains still.

Dear Emma! dear, dear Emma! how is this, That thou art here, unlook'd for at this hour, So many miles from home? Alas! that face Of ghastly paleness, and that alter'd look Of sad solemnity!—Speak to me quickly; I dare approach no nearer, till I hear Words of thy natural voice. Art thou alive?

A term, short as the passing of a thought,