Norbert. Give me them again, those hands: Put them upon my forehead, how it throbs! Press them before my eyes, the fire comes through! You cruellest, you dearest in the world, Let me! The Queen must grant whate'er I ask— Some time or other this was to be asked; Now is the one time-what I ask, I gain: Constance. Do, and ruin us. Norbert. Let it be now, Love! All my soul breaks forth. |