The boy may die: more blessed were the rags
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms
For her sick son, if he were like to live,
Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die.
I was to blame—the love you said you bore me—
My lord, we thank you for your entertainment,
[With a stately curtsey.
And so return—Heaven help him!—to our son.
[Turns.
Count (rushes forward).