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Dear brother! such wild gestures of despair, For the mere shapings of a sleepy brain!

It was not sleep from which we have revived her.

And grant it were not, swooning, I've been told, Will sometimes have its dream as well as sleep.

I was not well; I have been long unwell; Weakness and wretchedness disturb the brain; Perhaps it was the vision of a swoon. Be not so miserable, gentle Malcolm! O that this vision did foretell my death, If she were well and happy!

Forgive me, dearest Alice! O, forgive me! When paining thee, I'm hateful to myself. Leave us, dear brother! go to thine apartment.

I'll go where yearning nature urges me. (Going, then returning again to .) And didst thou hear her voice?