Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye,
And in thy wasted form. Ay, ’tis a deep
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace,
Instead of youth’s gay bloom, the characters
Of noble suffering: on thy brow the same
Commanding spirit holds its native state,
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed
This tyrant Eribert.
Vit. And told it not