LORNE.
Forgive me, noble creature!—Oh! the fate—
The wavward fate that binds thy gen'rous soul
To poor unsteady weakness!
HELEN.
Thus pressing still upon the galled spot?
Thou deal'st unkindly with me. Yes, my brother,
Unkindly and unwisely. Wherefore hast thou
Brought to this coast the man thou knowest well
I ought not in mysterious guise to see?
And he himself—seeks he again to move
The hapless weakness I have striv'n to conquer?
I thought him generous.
LORNE.
His wishes tend not to disturb thy peace:
Far other are his thoughts,—He bids me tell thee,
To cheer thy gentle heart, nor think of him,
As one who will in vain and stubborn grief
His ruin'd bliss lament,—he bids me say
That he will even strive, if it be possible,
Amongst the maidens of his land to seek
