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What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien?

Why, should not all be glad who have no sons To tarnish their bright name?

I am not used To bear with mockery.

Friend! By yon high heaven, I mock thee not! —'t is a proud fate, to live Alone and unallied.—Why, what's alone? A word whose sense is—free!—Ay, free from all The venom'd stings implanted in the heart By those it loves.—Oh! I could laugh to think O' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, When the word comes—"A son is born!"—A son! —They should say thus—"He that shall knit your brow "To furrows, not of years; and bid your eye "Quail its proud glance; to tell the earth its shame,— "Is born, and so, rejoice!"—Then might we feast, And know the cause:—Were it not excellent?

This is all idle. There are deeds to do; Arouse thee, Procida!

Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice?—She can strike, And yet be passionless—and thus will I. I know thy meaning.—Deeds to do!—'t is well. They shall be done ere thought on.—Go ye forth; There is a youth who calls himself my son, His name is—Raimond—in his eye is light That shows like truth—but be not ye deceived!