Count.
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.
I am St. Jacques' 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 sanctifie.

His taken labours bid him me forgive;
  I, his despightful Juno, sent him forth
From courtly Friends, with camping Foes to live;
  Where death and danger dog the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I my self 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'er-ta'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 Heav'n delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice. 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;
When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone,
He will return; and hope I may, that she,
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them Both
Is dearest to me, I've no skill in sense
To make distinction; provide this messenger;
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exeunt.

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