And thither lies their way.
Con. Alas! I see
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.
Raim. Pardon, belovèd Constance, if my words,
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance,
A tone of bitterness. Oh! when thine eyes,
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix’d
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget
All else in their soft beams; and yet I came
To tell thee——