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Hold, I do beseech thee! For pity, hold! it is my wretched father.

Wretched indeed!

Ay, therefore pity him. Let him escape: he hath done me no harm. He is here as a fox in his last wiles, Who shelter seeks within the very kennel O' the rous'd pack: Oh, have some pity on him! He is my father.

Sweet Ella, hang not thus upon mine arm: It hath no power to strike whom thou call'st father, Shame as he is unto that honour'd name. But there are ties upon me, gentle maid: The safety and the interests of Constantine I am bound to defend: and shall a traitor

Oh! oh!

Fear not: our royal master is return'd From blessed rites of holiest charity With meekly chasten'd soul: whate'er his crimes