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Rh

Like some unlook'd for,—some unwelcome thing?

Is it thy voice, my Garcio, in mine ears Sounding, as it was wont, the voice of love?

The bullet and the sabre's stroke have err'd, To spare this head, where thousands fell around me: For I believed thy saintly prayers did mar Their death-commissioned power.—Yes; I believed it.

And still believe it.—Yes, my prayers were raised Most fervently to Heaven: and I will bless it, What is the matter? Thou art strangely seized. Does sudden illness chill thee?

The Countess, good my Lord, is much o'ercome.