His words would ever mingle with my words,
To strike me dumb! But I’ve a better spirit
That bids me speak, and clear the innocent.
Doge.
Speak on—we hear thee.
Teresa.
Why then—he was false,
Who said ye heard no truth? Beseech ye, listen!
He loved me—Foscarini;—’twas not guilt,—
But sorrow—sorrow! Me he came to meet,