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O. Moor.
(Weeps bitterly.) My name!—My honourable name!
Francis.
Oh that he never had borne the name of Moor!—that my heart had not beat thus warmly for him!—Impious affection, that will not be suppressed, that must one day rise in judgement against me at the throne of God!
O. Moor.
O—all my prospects!—My golden dreams!
Francis.
I knew it well—'Twas what I always predicted.—That spirit of fire, said you, which sparkled forth even in his boyish years, which showed itself in an exquisite sensibility to every thing that was great or beautiful—that generous openness of character—the soul which spoke forth in his eyes—that tenderness of feeling, that manly courage, that youthful thirst of honour, that inflexible resolution, and all those shining qualities that adorn my darling son, will make him one day the delight of his friends, the support of his country,
—the