That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust,
Forgets not how to love!
Con. And must this be?
Heaven, thou art merciful!—Oh! bid our souls
Depart together!
Raim. Constance! there is strength
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved
Nobly, for me: arouse it once again!
Thy grief unmans me—and I fain would meet