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She show'd no weakness, rose from off the bed; Distinct, though low and few, the words she said. She took a scroll and wrote,—the phrase was brief; But a life's sorrow was upon that leaf. "To Count this, with all thy speed; And here, my page, is gold for present meed. Now all away,—my spirit is opprest:" She flung her on the couch as if for rest: They deem'd she slept:—at length her maidens came To ask her will, to light the lamps' sweet flame:— Where is the Countess? why, the couch is bare.— They search the halls in vain,—she is not there.

"Gold, oh! take double, so my prayer I win." When hath such offer fail'd?—She enter'd in: