Rousillon. A Room in the COUNTESS'S Palace. |
| |
Enter COUNTESS and Steward. |
| Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her? |
| Might you not know she would do as she has done, |
| By sending me a letter? Read it again. |
| Stew. I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone: |
| Ambitious love hath so in me offended |
| That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon |
| With sainted vow my faults to have amended. |
| Write, write, that from the bloody course of war, |
| My dearest master, your dear son, may hie: |
| Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far |
| His name with zealous fervour sanctify: |
| His taken labours bid him me forgive; |
| I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth |
| From courtly friends, with comping foes to live, |
| Where death and danger dog the heels of worth: |
| He is too good and fair for Death and me; |
| Whom I myself embrace, to set him free. |
| Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words! |
| Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much, |
| As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, |
| I could have well diverted her intents, |
| Which thus she hath prevented. |
| Stew. Pardon me, madam: |
| If I had given you this at over-night |
| She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes, |
| Pursuit would be but vain. |
| Count. What angel shall |
| Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive, |
| Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear, |
| And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath |
| Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, |
| To this unworthy husband of his wife; |
| Let every word weigh heavy of her worth |
| That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief, |
| Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. |
| Dispatch the most convenient messenger: |
| When haply he shall hear that she is gone, |
| He will return; and hope I may that she, |
| Hearing so much, will speed her foot again, |
| Led hither by pure love. Which of them both |
| Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense |
| To make distinction. Provide this messenger. |
| My heart is heavy and mine age is weak; |
| Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exeunt. |
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