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, | 4 |
| 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 | 8 |
| 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 | 12 |
| 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, | 16 |
| 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! | 20 |
| 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. | 24 |
| 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. | 28 |
| 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 | 32 |
| 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, | 36 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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. | 44 |
| My heart is heavy and mine age is weak; | |
| Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exeunt. | |