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Ella. Ah, woe is me! within these castle walls; Under this very tower in which we are, There be those, Dwina, who no sounds do hear But the chill winds that o'er their dungeons howl; Or the still tinkling of the water-drops Falling from their dank roofs, in dull succession, Like the death watch at sick men's beds. Alas! Whilst you sing cheerly thus, I think of them.

Dwi. Ay, many a diff'rent lot of joy and grief; Within a little compass may be found. Under one roof the woeful and the gay Do oft abide; on the same pillow rest. And yet, if I may rightly judge, the king Has but small joy above his wretched thralls. Last night I listen'd to his restless steps, As oft he paced his chamber to and fro, Right o'er my head! and I did hear him utter Such heavy groans!

Didst thou? And utter'd he no other sound? I've heard it whisper'd, at the dead of night He sees strange things.

''All. (speaking together.)'' O tell us, Dwina! tell us!

Dwi. Out on you all! you hear such foolish tales! He is himself the ghost that walks the night, And cannot rest.