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A gallant cavalier this new-found Count: He'll wear his honours gaily.

Such excess Of mirth's exuberance visits not for good. An evil fate is written on his brow; The dark, the ominous,—his very joy Is like a desperate man's:— I like it not. He is not one over whose head the curse Will pass away that hangs upon his house.

Yonder is Bertha; but how very pale!— More like a nun on whom the moonlight falls In some lone cell, than a betrothed bride.