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Carlotti.
Oh, good my lord!
My early patron, thou hast rent my heart
By these sad tales.
Angelo.
I am a man borne down
By lava floods; in vain I struggle; fate
Pursues me; every bright and cheering hope
Whelmed in the burning cataract, my soul
Withers within me. This fair atmosphere,
The breeze, which unto others brings rich balm
And healing on its wings, to me is hot
And suffocating; cursed by heaven and man,
I hide my miserable wasted form
Within my palace walls,
Carlotti.
Can friendship soothe
Thy deep-felt woes?
