Fulvia: My lord, flowers and vines upon these walls
That seem always in dismal memory
And mist of grief? What means it?
Charles: That sprung up,
A greedy multitude upon the fields,
Citron and olive were left hungry, so
I quelled them!
Fulvia: Magic ever dwells in flowers
To waft me back to childhood. (Taking some.)
Poor pluckt buds
If they could speak like children torn from the breast.
Charles: You're full of sighs and pity then?
Fulvia: Yes, and—
Of doubt.
Charles: What so divides you?
Fulvia: Helena—
This Greek—I do not understand.
Charles: Nor guess?
You have not seen nor spoken to her?
Fulvia: No.
Charles: We'll have her. (Motions servant.)
Go. Say that we wait her here,
The lady Helena. (Servant goes.
She's frighted—thinks
'Tmay be her father found too deep a rest
Within our care: yet has a hope that holds
The tears still from her lids. I've smiled on her,
Smiled, Fulvia, and she—Why do you cloud?