Your fainting spirits that were grieu’d before:
But Daughter, I must chide you.
Le. Father, why?
Lis. For your neglect, and too much crueltie
To one that dearely loues you.
Le. Whom in the name of wonder?
Lor. On my life,
This Frier’s made an agent in my suit.
Lis. The hope of Sicill, Map of true Nobilitie,
Patterne of Wisdome, Grace and Grauitie.