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Rh

It is thyself and not thy gifts I prize: Thou know'st too well how my fond doating heart Is moved with the soft witch'ry of thy tongue; Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my heart. Oh! 'tis too much! (pretending to burst into tears.)

I cannot see thee weep: what would'st thou have?

I will have nought, unless you go with me.

I cannot now, for I have urgent bus'ness.

Then stay, and never see my face again. O that some friendly hand would end my days, Since I have lived to see me thus despis'd.

Bernard, I think I must e'en go with her. See thou to Rayner: I will soon return. (Aloud.) Then let us go, my love, thou dost compel me. Thy hand, sweet Mira. (Exeunt Zaterloo and Mira.)

Well, gentle friends, it is blest liberty Our noble chief enjoys. I must to Rayner.