Count. That cursed barb,
(My fatal gift) that dash'd him down the cliff,
Seem'd proud of his gay burden.—Breathless, mangled,
They bore him back to me. Fond man! I hoped
This day, this happy match with Isabel
Had made our line perpetual; and, this day,
The unfruitful grave receives him. Yes, 'tis fate!
That dreadful denunciation 'gainst my house,
No prudence can avert, nor prayers can soften.
Fab. Think not on that; some visionary's dream.