That soft, ambrosial hue,—Fairer than thee!
'Twere blasphemy in any tongue but thine,
So to disparage thy unmatch'd perfections.
Adel. No, Theodore, I dare not hear thee longer;
Perhaps, indeed, there is some fatal cause.
Theod. There is not, cannot be. 'Tis but his pride,
Stung by resentment 'gainst thy furious father—
Adel. Ah no; he is too generous, just, and good,
To hate me for the offences of my father.
But find the cause. At good Alphonso's tomb