ALBOVINE.
How thy lips
Hang lingering on his name as though ’twere thou
That loved him! Thou shouldst love thy maiden well.
ROSAMUND.
As she loves me I love her. Hildegard,
Leave us. Thou knowest I love thee.
HILDEGARD.
Queen, I know.
[Exit.
ALBOVINE.
What ails the boy? what rapturous agony
Torments and glorifies his glance at her
As with delight in torture? Cheer thee, man:
Thou art not thus all unworthy.
ROSAMUND.