Jos. It does, my love; and never may it throb30

With aught more bitter.

Ida.‍Never shall it do so!

How should it? What should make us grieve? I hate

To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad,

Who love each other so entirely? You,

The Count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida.

Jos. Poor child!

Ida.‍Do you pity me?

Jos.‍No: I but envy,