Jul. Never

Rod. So deep in guilt, in treachery! Forced to acknowledge it! forced to avow The traitor!

Jul. Not to thee, who reignest not, But to a country ever dear to me, And dearer now than ever: what we love Is loveliest in departure! One I thought, As every father thinks, the best of all, Graceful, and mild, and sensible, and chaste: Now all these qualities of form and soul Fade from before me, nor on anyone Can I repose, or be consoled by any. And yet in this torn heart I love her more Than I could love her when I dwelt on each, Or clasped them all united, and thanked God, Without a wish beyond.—Away, thou fiend! O ignominy, last and worst of all! I weep before thee—like a child—like mine— And tell my woes, fount of them all, to thee!