Fulvia: 'Tis hard to think!
Charles: You utter and he seemeth still of life.
Fulvia: He was a child in mimic mail clad out
When first this threshold poured its welcome to me.
Charles: Softly you muse it, and call to your eyes
No quailing nor a flame of execration!
You do not burst out on me? from me do
Not shrink as from an executioner?
Fulvia: I am a woman who in tears came to
Your strength, in tears depart.
Charles: And will not judge?
But fear me—fear, and flee?—You shall not go!
Fulvia: Perhaps
Charles: Again "perhaps"—this calm "perhaps!"——
To Rome?—I say you shall not.
Fulvia: Yet should he,
Antonio, from those curtains come——
Charles: Should—should?
You speak not reasonably. Why do you say
"If he should come?"