We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile
Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman’s heart.
Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?
Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms—
Father!
D’Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go—