And pure affection bless'd me once; dost think.
That such attachment e'er could fade? My life.
Hangs on thy answer: speak, Giovanni!
Giovanni.
A stranger, yet familiar with my name. [Aside
Who, and what art thou?
Rosmunda.
Oh, it chills my breast
To hear thee ask the question; to thy heart
Hath not a spirit whispered, 'tis the wreck
Of what was once thy precious, best beloved,
Thy cherished wife, Rosmunda?
Giovanni.
Oh! no, no;
Her bones are whitening deep beneath the sea;
A fathomless abyss enshrines her form;
Wave after wave rolls o'er her; she is dead—
Rosmunda.
The locks that thou wert wont to call the plume
Stolen from the raven's wing, have lost their gloss;
