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No, no, Van Maurice, Upon your faces I do plainly read A more distressing tale. Deceive me not: Tell me the worst at once; I'm his betroth'd, And have a right to know it. Have I not? Have I not, gentle Claudien?

Thou hast a right to every thing, my love, That a devoted heart can give. My life, All that deserves the name of life, I have But in thy presence; to be absent from thee Longer than strict necessity compels Would be a wanton act of self destruction. Trust, then, that he who is so strongly bound Will soon return. The carrier-bird, released, Points to one cherish'd spot her arrowy flight; Not air's bright insects, nor earth's alpine peaks, With purple berries clothed, her wonted lures, From its true line can warp it e'en so much As the vibration of a stricken cord.

This is no answer: art thou not my own,— Almost my husband, and here stands a brother, And yet you deal with me in mysteries. Fie! is this well? Have I deserved this wrong?

Be satisfied, Rosella; urge us not.