But coldness and aversion; how to shun me,
And turn me forth a friendless wanderer.
Aust. Lady, for your peace,
Think, conscience is the deepest source of anguish:
A bosom, free like yours, has life's best sunshine;
'Tis the warm blaze in the poor herdsman's hut;
That, when the storm howls o'er his humble thatch,
Brightens his clay-built walls, and cheers his soul.
Countess. O father, reason is for moderate sorrows;