ALBOVINE。
Thou; my boy? 'Dies。
ROSAMUND。
I。 But he hears not。 Now; my warrior guests;
I drink to the onward passage of his soul
Death。 Had my hand turned coward or played me false;
This man that is my hand; and less than I
And less than he bloodguilty; this my death
Had been my husband's: now he has left it me。
'Drinks。
How innocent are all but he and I
No time is mine to tell you。 Truth shall tell。
I pardon thee; my husband: pardon me。 'Dies。
NARSETES。
Let none make moan。 This doom is none of man's。
End
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