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Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that, lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, A tyrant's will should force me to profane Heaven's altar with unhallow'd vows—and live Stung by the keen, unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live—another's bride?

Never, oh never!—fear not, noble lady! Worthy of Conradin!

Yet hear me still. His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. —Say, is this meet?

We deem'd these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but 'tis a joy to find Thou art noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs This shall not be.

Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid, but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires—a festival; and it must be Thy bridal!

Procida!

Nay, start not thus. 'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair