Page:Dramas 3.pdf/227

Rh

It is a death-blow to her stricken heart. How fix'd and pale that lovely countenance, More like my mother's than I ever saw it. Like her who loved us both and rear'd us tenderly, Who daily shed her widow's blessing o'er us, And little thought for what calamities We both might be reserved. But she revives. How art thou, sweet Rosella?

I've been asleep, and thought some fearful thing Was girding me.O no! it was not sleep: I know it now distinctly.

Thou tremblest violently.

I tremble, but thou need'st not be afraid; I shall not faint again.

Fear not for Claudien.

My own dear brother; gen'rous and devoted; Is any thing more precious than thyself? No, right is right; thou shalt not die for Claudien. Thank God he's absent! let him so remain: