Lady Giovanna.
Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode
In Florence ten years back. What’s here? a scroll
Pinn’d to the wreath.
My lord, you have said so much
Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough
To take it down, if but to guess what flowers
Had made it; and I find a written scroll
That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read?
Count.