Thou wert his father! Spare him! take my life!
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his,
But yet mine all. Oh! he hath still to run
A long bright race of glory.
Raim. Constance, peace!
I look upon thee, and my failing heart
Is as a broken reed.
Con. (still addressing Procida.) Oh, yet relent!
If ’twas his crime to rescue me—behold
I come to be the atonement! Let him live