Were we made slaves at Tunis.
Aust. Ha! at Tunis?
Seiz'd with thy mother? Lives she, gentle youth?
Theod. Ah, no, dear saint! fate ended soon her woes,
In pity, ended! On her dying couch,
She pray'd for blessings on me.
Aust. Be thou blessed!
O fail not, nature, but support this conflict!
'Tis not delusion, sure. It must be he.—
But one thing more; did she not tell thee too,