Hang o'er thy couch, relume thy grief-dulled eye
With the revivifying influence
Of faithful love. Oh, there are human breasts
So constant, so munificent, so blest
With god-like attributes, that, for their sakes,
Heaven withholds its fires from sinful men.
Rosmunda.
Should, by misfortune's blighting touch, my form
Be so much altered, that a single trace
Of former beauty doth not live, to wake
Remembrance in the breast; the silv'ry sound,
The music of my voice, be changed to harsh
And grating discord, dost thou, dost thou think
Those who have loved me in my former pride,
Will gaze with kindness now?
Giovanni.
If thou hast proof
That love existed strong, unsullied—
Rosmunda.
Yes,
Oh yes, disinterested, passionate,
