Of suppliant millions, on his truth who rest
Their hopes—their all—yet ready to fling down
The mighty burthen, if it impede the way
To some light goal of pleasure! Is’t to such
We plead?—Before I reverenced, though I feared thee,
I scorn thee now!
Contarini.
Proud, wayward girl, remember
Whom ’tis you taunt!
Teresa.