While, like the grasp of death, convulsions shake her.
Aust. Remorseless man! this wound would reach her heart,
And when she falls, his last, best prop, falls with her,
And see, the beauteous mourner moves this way:
Time has but little injur'd that fair fabric;
But cruelty's hard stroke, more fell than time,
Works at the base, and shakes it to the centre.
Enter the Countess.
Countess. Will then, these dreadful sounds ne'er leave my ears?