Of another, not myself; and well I know
Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance
Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death
Or hopeless depths of crime?
Asan.
Lady, I pity
Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.
Ire. Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,
And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!
Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other,