And every air is heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!—Dost thou like the picture?"
This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!
O fool—O dupe—O wretch! I see it all.
The by-word and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me,
And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot—