A thousand years ago. All now's forgot
But that thou mayst be mine.
Ara. O, false——
Oc. O true!
What was scarce fair to unpossessing eyes,
Perfection is when gods have made it ours.
Thou wilt forgive me that I loved thee not
While thou wert Dion's, for my eyes were sealed
By loyalty to him. But this divorce
That frees thee gives me sight. I see, and love.