Enter Fesenio.
Fesenio. Already have our band the slayer sought,
They say he posts to Rome in haste,
Our Duke gives escort to Ferrara's walls,
So as to stem our fury of assault.
The common cry, that time shall chill
The boiling blood of Castelvine's kin.
The people shout, young Montes drew
But in his own defence. And being true,
All blame Otavio, who with venom'd haste
Did seek the brawl, and knowing this
Have sheathed their swords in peace.
Teobaldo. No more, I am not marble, nor
My soul of adamant, my grief of heart
Is deep enough without thy stinging blame.
For hug I not my woe both night and day.
Oh, cowards, traitors, shameless rabble, say!
What, shall I die and have not my revenge?
How well cold worldly comfort sounds to one
Who hath just kiss'd the dead cheek of his son!
Why doth hot vengeance sleep? So old, so weak,
I'll to the Duke, and for this outrage seek
Some quick redress. Oh that my soul were free,
Otavio slain and dead, life hath no joy for me. [Exit.
Dorotea. 'Twas barbarous thus to speak
Such words to one so stricken and so sad.
Fesenio. Lady, I wear the humble garb of service, yet
No truth nor honour have I lost;
All blame upon thy brother rests.
Dorotea. I mourn my brother with a sister's grief,
And yet thank heaven that this Montes lives.
