Regret?—the noble nature! He's not made
Like these Italians: 'tis a German soul.
(Charles enters crowned.)
Oh, where's the King's heir? Gone:—the Crown-prince? Gone:—
Where's Savoy? Gone!—Sardinia? Gone! But Charles
Is left! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive,
If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight
As his gray eyes seemed widening into black
Because I praised him, then how will he look?
Farewell, you stripped and whited mulberry-trees