King.
We lost a jewel of her, 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
Natural rebellion, done i'th' blade of youth,
When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,
O'erbears it, and burns on.

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.

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