aycan@opheliaaa· 2ay🇹🇷
abbot: alas! how pale thou art—thy lips are white_ and thy breast heaves-and in thy gasping throat the accents rattle. give thy prayers to heaven— pray—albeit but in thought, but die not thus. manfred: ‘t is over—my dull eyes can fix thee not; but all things swim around me, and the earth heaves as it were beneath me. fare thee well-give me thy hand. abbot: cold-cold-even to the heart— but yet one prayer-alas! how fares it with thee? manfred: old man! ‘t is not so difficult to die. [manfred expires. abbot: he’s gone, his soul hath ta’en its earthless flight; whither? i dread to think; but he is gone.
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