No echo in a maiden's quiet soul,
But her pure bosom heaves, her eyes fill fast
With tears, her sweet lips tremble all the while!
Ha, ha!
Fest. It seems, then, you expect to reap
No unreal joy from this your present course,
But rather . . .
Par. Death! To die! I owe that much
To what, at least, I was. I should be sad
To live contented after such a fall,