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See how it is with him! His father's house Has unto him become a cheerless den. His pleasant tales and sprightly playful talk, Which still our social meals were wont to cheer, Now visit us but like a hasty beam Between the showery clouds. Nay, e'en the maid, My careful father destines for his bride, That he may still retain him here at home, Fair as she is, receives when she appears His cold and cheerless smile. Surely thy penanced pilgrimage to Rome, And the displeasure of our holy saint, Might well have taught thee that such sacred art Was good for priests alone. Thou'st spoilt the youth.

Eth. I've spoilt the youth! What think'st thou then of me?

Sel. I not believe that thou at dead of night Unto dark spirits say'st unholy rhymes; Nor that the torch, on holy altars burnt, Sinks into smoth'ring smoke at thy approach; Nor that foul fiends about thy castle yell, What time the darken'd earth is rock'd with storms; Tho' many do such frightful credence hold, And sign themselves when thou dost cross their way. I not believe

Eth. By the bless'd light of heaven!—

Sel. I cannot think

Eth. By this well-proved sword!