Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love; He was the sunshine of my soul, and like A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light. Oh bear not with me thus impatiently! No tale of weakness this, that in the act Of penitence, indulgent to itself, With garrulous palliation half repeats The sin it ill repents. I will be brief, And shrink not from confessing how the love Which thus began in innocence, betray’d My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone, But him, before whom, shining as he shone With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er Is lovely, whatsoever good and great, I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas! This glorious being, this exalted Prince, Even him, with all his royalty of soul, Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love, To his most lamentable fall betray And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King, By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised, To an unworthy mate had bound himself In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell How Nature upon Egilona’s form, Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts, Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands, Deformity and hollowness beneath The rich external? For the love of pomp And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d The grief and wonder of good men, the gibes Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all; Profaning the most holy sacrament Of marriage, to become chief of the wives Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel, The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain! All know her now; but they alone who knew What Roderick was can judge his wretchedness, To that light spirit and unfeeling heart In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose From this unhappy union, towards whom The springs of love within his soul confined Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew, Who in promiscuous appetite can find All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man! Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm! And the slight bias of untoward chance Makes his best virtue from the even line, With fatal declination, swerve aside. Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ... Well, Father, mayest thou groan! My evil fate Made me an inmate of the royal house, And Roderick found in me, if not a heart Like his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?... One which at least felt his surpassing worth, And loved him for himself.... A little yet Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch Upon the point, and this long prologue goes, As justice bids, to palliate his offence, Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought Such as fond sisters for a brother feel, Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth, Till the beloved presence had become Needful as food or necessary sleep, My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing. Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have lived Contented with this pure idolatry, Had he been happy: but I saw and knew