For mine own head, yoked in my sister's curse The blessing he refused me.

DON TOMMASO.

Well, take comfort ; This grace may yet be thine. SCENE n. Palermo, A Nunnery. Enter Abbess, foUowed by a Lay-Sister. ABBESS. Is the poor creature roused ?

LAY-SISTEB.

Nay, she still sleeps. 'T would break your pious heart to see her, mother. She begged our meanest cell, though 't is past doubt She has been bred to delicate luxury. I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heaved As gently as a babe's and even in dreams Two crystal drops oozed from her swollen lids, And trickled down her cheeks. Her grief sleeps not. Although the fragile body craves its rest.