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Thy face is fair; And hath been unto me, in other days, As morning to the journeyer of the deep; But now—'tis too like hers!

Woe, shame and woe, Are on me in their might!—forgive, forgive!

Doth the Moor deem that I have part or share, Or counsel in this vileness?—Stay me not! Let go thy hold—'tis powerless on me now— I linger here, while treason is at work! [Exit.

Ximena, dost thou scorn me?

I have found In mine own heart too much of feebleness, Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes But His whom nought can blind;—to dare do aught But pity thee, dear mother!

Blessings light On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this!