King.
We lost a jewel of her, ^{4 note}our esteem
Was made much poorer by it; but your son,
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation home.

Count.
'Tis past, my Liege;
And I beseech your Majesty to make it

^{5 note}

King.
My honour'd Lady,
I have forgiven and forgotten all;
Tho' my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch'd the time to shoot.

Laf.
This I must say,
But first I beg my pardon; the young Lord
Did to his Majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife,
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;
Whose dear perfection, hearts, that scorn'd to serve,
Humbly call'd mistress.

King.
Praising what is lost,
Makes the remembrance dear. Well—call him hither;
We're reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill
All repetition: let him not ask our pardon.
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion we do bury
Th' incensing relicks of it. Let him approach,
A stranger, no offender; and inform him,
So 'tis our will he should.

Gent.
I shall, my Liege.

King.
What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?

Laf.
All, that he is, hath reference to your Highness.

King.
Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me,
That set him high in fame.

Previous section

Next section