All—but too well.
I know you guiltless.
Teresa.
No—you know not half
The wild, bad thoughts I’ve cherished.—Foscarini,
I’ve wished thee dead! I’ve looked upon the sky
When the fierce tempest blackened it—and hoped—
And hoped its wings would sweep thee to destruction!
Invoked the hoary mountain rocks to crush thee!
Prayed, as I ne’er before have prayed for weal