Some dearer hand will dry her short lived tears.
Teresa (struggling with emotion.)
My father!
Veniero.
Touch me not! the old man’s years
Are nearly run—why should they now be lengthened?
These hairs are white—no matter! they’ll be dabbled
With red, full soon! My limbs are old and weary—
They’ll rest well in the grave—and until then
The earth’s a fitting bed! (throws himself on the ground.)