And wilt not burst with griefe?
Gent. Nay, good my Lord:
Nic. Oh, worthie Sir, you did not know the ioyes
That we all lost in her. She was the hope,
And onely comfort of Sicilia;
And the last Branch was left of that faire stocke;
Which (if she dye) is wither’d, quite decay’d.
But I haue such a losse.
Gent. You haue indeed:
Yours is the greatest of a particular: