]. The world is dead to me,
and all its smiles!
Isen. Oh, woe! my Prince! and doubly woe, my daughter.
[Elizabeth springs up and rushes out.]
Oh, stop her--stop my child! She will go mad--
Dash herself down--Fly--Fly--She is not made
Of hard, light stuff, like you.
Soph. I had expected some such passionate outbreak
At the first news: you see now, Lady Agnes,
These saints, who fain would 'wean themselves from earth,'
Still yield to the affections they despise
When the game's earnest--Now--ere they return--
Your brother, child, is dead--
Agnes. I know it too well.
So young--so brave--so blest!--And she--she loved him--
Oh! I repent of all the foolish scoffs
With which I crossed her.
Soph. Yes--the Landgrave's dead--
Attend to me--Alas! my son! my son!
He was my first-born! But he has a brother--
Agnes! we must not let this foreign gipsy,
Who, as you see, is scarce her own wits' mistress,
Flaunt sovereign over us, and our broad lands,
To my son's prejudice--There are barons, child,
Who will obey a knight, but not a saint:
I must at once to them.
Agnes.
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