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From the wild fancies of a dying man, Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it. To hold itself unshaken! Doubt is misery. I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness. O! if his kindling eye with generous ire Repel the charge;—if his blest voice deny it, Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth, I'll not believe it.

What brings thee here again? Did I not charge thee To go to bed?

And so I did intend. But in my chamber, half prepared for rest, Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet To lay some baubles by, I found within

What hast thou found?

Have I not heard you say, that shortly after Your marriage with the Count, from your apartment, A picture of your brother, clad in mail,