Teresa.
Oh! thou wilt not hate me!
I bless thee for it! That fear has wrought so oft
My thoughts to bitterness! It was a phantom
That haunted me, and mocked my tears! No—no!
Thy pity, like the angel of Heaven’s mercy,
Will smile—and smile—and soothe me as I pass
Down to the cold and welcome grave—and then—
When I am dead—thou’lt think on me—weep for me—
Wilt thou not, Foscarini?