Countess.
Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done,
By sending me a letter? Read it again. LETTER.* ^note

I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
  Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
  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,
  His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words?
Rynaldo, 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.

Stew.
Pardon, 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.

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
Of greater justice.* ^note Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife.
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light. My greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Dispatch the most convenient messenger;† ^note





[Exit Steward.
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exit.

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