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Stretch'd on a sick-bed—smitten by the same Most pestilent disease that slew his mistress.

And with each other be at peace, dear Malcolm: What is there now of rivalry between us?

Speak not so gently to me, noble Claude! I've been to thee so wayward and unjust, Thy kindness wrings the heart which it should soften. (After a pause.) And all our fond delusion ends in this! We've tack'd our shallow barks for the same course; And the fair mimic isle, like Paradise, Which seem'd to beckon us, was but a bank Of ocean's fog, now into air dissolved!

No; say not beckon'd. She was honourable As she was fair: no wily woman's art Did e'er disgrace her worth;—believe me, Malcolm.

Yes; I believe thee, and I bless thee too, Thou best and loveliest friend of one so lovely!