I hold myself thy debtor much,
And so remain your thankful slave.
From this fierce feud thy goodly sword
May aid to hold me free; I ask no more
'Tween this and famed Ferrara's gates.
No cause have we to fear; indeed,
Verona holds you much in need,
And in thy person hopes to quell these brawls.
I heard that suit of thine was made
To one of Castelvine's loveliest maids;
Yet as a Montes now I hold thee friend,
And these brave deeds of thine commend.
Count. Hush! I hear the feet of strangers near.
Roselo. Who goes there?
Enter Fesenio.
Fesenio. Señor, your name?
Paris. The Count of Paris.
Fesenio. To thee, Sir Count, this letter now is charged.
Paris. Fear naught, Roselo; I am thy friend.—
From whom this letter?
Fesenio. Antonio Castelvin.
Marin (aside to Roselo). Pray stick the bearer, and at once!
Roselo. Unharm'd he shall depart from hence.
Marin. The words, no doubt, are full of peace—
The deed to kill us on the road.
Roselo. For me, I care not what Fate gives;
He dies with cheer who sadly lives.
Marin. (aside to Roselo). He seems much troubled as he reads.
