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Now Florio, in the King's name speak, and save |
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The maiden, ere the work of fate be done! |
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Snatch from the horrors of her living grave |
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The Monarch's favourite care, the lovely nun!— |
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He seems bewitch'd: strange fears his senses stun |
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Till his knees knock;—he cannot see her face— |
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But chill and shuddering tremors o'er him run, |
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The while the veil the Legate slow doth place, |
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And while th' attendant nuns adjust its folds to grace. |