"Stay, gaoler, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee:
For what I'm now too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be calm, though sad;
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear
I am not mad! I am not mad!

A tyrant husband forged the tale
Which chains me in this dreary cell;
My fate, unknown, my friends bewail --
Oh! gaoler, haste, that fate to tell.
Oh! haste, my father's heart to cheer;
That heart, at once, 'twill grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad! not mad! not mad!"