Oh, had I known how much she loved
Otavio, I'd not have clamoured for revenge,
And wedding her, let vengeance sleep.
It grieves me sore to see her weep
Otavio dead, the more that all her tears
And woe be of a widow'd bride;
I fain would see her lock'd in bonds of love.
Her husband should be brave and noble, rich,
And must well favour'd be.
Count Paris did entreat me for her hand,
Ere he did journey with the Duke;
He will return anon. Think'st thou, good Lucio,
She'll mourn the dead for ever, while
A living lover woos her tearful eyes to smile?
Lucio. Count Paris is a fitting and most proper lord
For so gentle gracious and so sweet a maid
As Lady Julia.
I pray you seek her, sir, and with most gentle words
Discourse of this most noble Count, whose sighs
Perchance will find some favour in her eyes.
Antonio. A husband dead is mourn'd as cloudy day;
Let sunshine on the morrow break, 'twill hap
You'll seek the grief in dark oblivion's lap.
Scene III.—The open country; road leading to Ferrara.
Count Paris, Roselo, Marin, and attendants.
Paris. Our meeting thus indeed is sad.
No hatred know I for thy kin or thee;
And when hath even busy rumour said
That Paris sided with Castelvin's lords?
Roselo. If I, so desperate in my need, so sad,
