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Thou wouldst receive our foes!—but they shall meet From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold As death can make it.—Go, prepare thy soul!

Father! yet hear me!

No! thou'rt skill'd to make E'en shame look fair.—Why should I linger thus? (Going to leave the prison he turns back for a moment. If there be aught—if aught—for which thou need'st Forgiveness—not of me, but that dread power From whom no heart is veil'd—delay thou not Thy prayer:—Time hurries on.

I am prepared.

'Tis well. [Exit Procida.

Men talk of torture!—Can they wreak Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, Half the mind bears, and lives?—My spirit feels Bewilder'd; on its powers this twilight gloom Hangs like a weight of earth.—It should be morn; Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven's bright sun Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, Telling of hope and mercy! [Exit into an inner cell.

The morning breaks; his time is almost come: Will he be led this way?