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The reckless profligates I have despised, Would execrate! Clasp me again, my love, Once more within the heaven of thine arms, Ere I descend to expiate my crime In endless pangs. Giovanni! my Giovanni! Thy brow grows livid, and thy trembling limbs Are failing; leave me not, my life! my soul! My husband! Search in the wood; she lies Beneath a blasted oak; give to her corse The rites of Christian burial. I fear She needs thy pious aid; her soul, like mine, Had lost its innocence before she died— And place me in thy tomb, my gentle love. We ne'er shall meet in happiness, but still 'Twill sooth me if our dust be mingled here.—