They are both asleep. They will not see
The hand which strikes them. No remorse
O my heart;
They must not live. Anguish here ? in Rome,
Abuse far worse than anguish ?
Slaves of a stepmother. Ah no, never!
They must die. I cannot go nearer:
A chill seizes me, my hair
Stands with fright. To kill my children!
Tender babies, until now
The joy of my life ? they, in whose smile
I seemed to see Heaven's pardon,
Can I kill them? What guilt have they?
They are the children of Pollione:
That is their crime! For me, they have already died;
Let them die for him, too.
May his anguish be greater than any other.
Ah no! They are my children, mine!
Oh, Clotilde! Come - quickly!
Bring Adalgisa to me.
She is nearby,
Walking alone, weeping and praying.
Go ? let my sin be mended ? and then, to die.