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Yet slander loudly hissed with plague-fraught breath A thousand falsehoods; told of Moorish gold, Of coward terrors, trifling, weak designs, Blasted my name, and held me up to scorn. A poor return! 'Tis an ungrateful world Yet let not this depress you; soon, perchance, ⠀⠀ A time may come that shall retrieve the ills You labour under. Never, Carlotti; Never, whilst Julian and Geraldi live. They are my rival stars, and shine so bright, I am eclipsed, o'erpowered, sunk in thick Impenetrable darkness. By my birth A prince; in person——'tis poor vanity To plume one's self on mere exterior, And chance advantages; yet I may boast A form, cast in as grand and pure a mould As Julian's, or as Sforza's; and my mind—