Shouldst fall!
Aym. Moraima! then your blessèd tears
Would flow for me? then you would weep for me?
Mor. I must weep tears of very shame; and yet—
If—if your words have been love’s own true words,
Grant me one boon!
[Trumpet sounds again.
Aym. Hark! I must hence. A boon!
Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart,
As the last token, it may be, of love