Ottima. To me—not of me!—ungrateful, perjured cheat!
A coward, too: but ingrate's worse than all!
Beggar—my slave—a fawning, cringing lie!
Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift!

A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks!

Sebald. My God!
Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder-blades—
I should have known there was no blood beneath!

Ottima. You hate me, then? You hate me, then?

Sebald. To think
She would succeed in her absurd attempt,
And fascinate by sinning; and show herself
Superior—Guilt from its excess, superior
To innocence! That little peasant's voice
Has righted all again. Though I be lost,

I know which is the better, never fear,
Of vice or virtue, purity or lust,
Nature, or trick! I see what I have done,
Entirely now! Oh, I am proud to feel
Such torments—let the world take credit thence—
I, having done my deed, pay too its price!
I hate, hate—curse you! God's in His heaven!

Ottima. —Me!
Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself—kill me!
Mine is the whole crime—do but kill me—then
Yourself—then—presently—first hear me speak—

I always meant to kill myself—wait, you!
Lean on my breast—not as a breast; don't love me
The more because you lean on me, my own
Heart's Sebald! There—there—both deaths presently!

Sebald. My brain is drowned now—quite drowned: all I feel

Is...is, at swift-recurring intervals,