Violante
When you remove your veil
Behind which ugliness that beggars hell
Lies hidden—
Olivia [dazed]
Ugliness?
Violante
Cast by your veil!...
Well may you shrink from your own hideousness
Since the foul plague has withered up your face
And seared it till you die....
There shines your mirror, wrought of polished brass—
How many hours you have dallied at it
Only the beauty that you once possessed
Can tell.
You will no longer find a use for it.
Olivia [recovering herself]
I trust I shall!
Lizzia [to Olivia]
Alas, dear God! And is it true, Olivia?