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Triumph now, Proud beauty. Thy supremacy o'er all Thy lovely sex is stamped with blood; thy path To fame is strewed with richer trophies than Pale flowers and tender madrigals; thy name Shall live for ever in the fatal scroll Recording Julian's death, and Sforza's doom. My poor Geraldi—let me chase away Those unkind thoughts, rising, like evil fiends, To goad thy wounded spirit; this dark cell Wherein hath pass'd thy lonely hours, the pangs Of keen remorse have worked a fearful change; 'Tis not thy nature, Sforza—Oh, unbend That strange contracted brow—my tears, my prayers, Will they not melt thy much-enduring heart?

Tell me that Julian lives.—Oh, beauteous cause Of man's destruction, hence! Thou art not safe