CONSTANTINE.
But this distresses thee. Well, gen'rous man,
I'll give my heart a little breathing space;
For oh! the gen'rous love of these brave men,
Holding thus nobly to my sinking fate,
Presses it sorely.
From thee nor from myself can I conceal
The hopeless state in which I am beset.
No foreign prince a brother's hand extends
In this mine hour of need; no christian state
Sends forth its zealous armies to defend
This our begirded cross: within our walls,
Tho' with th' addition of our later friends,
I cannot number soldiers ev'n sufficient
To hold a petty town 'gainst such vast odds.
I needs must smile and wear a brow of hope,
But with thee, gentle Othus, I put off
All form and seeming; I am what I am,
A weak and heart-rent man.—Wilt thou forgive me?
For I in truth must weep.
OTHUS.
With many a wave o’er-ridden! Thou striv'st nobly
