Of some imaginary conflict, fight
And struggle—ev’n as you did; some, ’tis thought,
Under the dreamt-of stroke of death have died.
Seg. And what so very strange too—In that world
Where place as well as people all was strange,
Ev’n I almost as strange unto myself,
You only, you, Clotaldo—you, as much
And palpably yourself as now you are,
Came in this very garb you ever wore,
By such a token of the past, you said,