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THE SEPERATION: A TRAGEDY.
Who hear the night-blast rock their walls, and think
The head to them most dear may be unshelter'd,
Thou couldst not be so cruel
(Turning round.) Who 'twitch'd my robe?
LUDOVIQUO.
Who press'd, ev'n now, its border to his lips,
Then shrunk aside.
COUNTESS.
LUDOVIQUO.
On woman never looks.
COUNTESS.
LUDOVIQUO.
COUNTESS.
LUDOVIQUO.
Set by his prayers great store. Ev'n mothers leave
The very cradles of their dying infants
To beg them. Wives, whose husbands are at sea,