Will yield thee to my wishes;—but, curs'd stars!
How shall I speak it?
Adel. What?
Theod. That holy man,
That Clarinsal, whom I am bound to honour,
Perversely bids me think of thee no more.
Adel. Alas! in what have I offended him?
Theod. Not so; he owns thy virtues, and admires them.
But with a solemn earnestness that kills me,
He urges some mysterious, dreadful cause,