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To tell the noble mistress of this castle That one, devoted dearly to her service, Who breathes the air in which she breathes, as gales Wafted from Paradise, begs in her presence With all devotion to present himself.

The Marquis of Tortona, as I guess.

The same; and let not in your peaceful halls Our warlike mien alarm you. In the field Whatever our power may be, forget it here. Within her precincts, Mars himself would doff His nodding helm, and bend in meek submission.

True, valiant Lord; the brave are ever gentle In hall and bower. But think not warlike guise Will so alarm us now: there are within Whose nodding plumes, indeed, less downy are, Whose well-hack'd armour wears a dimmer hue, Who have already taught our timid eyes To look more boldly on such awful things.

How, those within? What mean'st thou?