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Away, away, with all those pompous sounds! I know them not. I by thy side have shar'd The public gaze, and th' applauding shouts Of bending crowds: but I have also shar'd The hour of thy heart's forrow, still and silent, The hour of thy heart's joy. I have supported Thine aching head, like the poor wand'rer's wife, Who, on his seat of turf, beneath heaven's roof, Rests on his way.—The storm beats fiercely on us: Our nature suits not with these worldly times, To it most adverse. Fortune loves us not; She hath for us no good: do we retain Her fetters only? No, thou shalt not go! (Twining her arms round him.) By that which binds the peasant and the prince, The warrior and the slave, all that do bear The form and nature of a man, I stay thee! Thou shalt not go.

Would'st thou degrade me thus?

Would'st thou unto my bosom give death's pang? Thou lov'st me not.

My friends, ye see how I am fetter'd here.