Enter Banquo Belvidere. (Anxiously gazes round and then
addresses the window.)
Berlinda! art thou there, my own Berlinda?
My heart is hot with love—a very cinder—
Alas! she’s gone to bed, she cannot hear,
And I shall go to Bedlam soon I fear.
I place these flowers on the sill within thy reach,
They’re better, p’raps, than silly flowers of speech.
(Exit.)
Roderigo (comes forth and takes the flowers).
A sweet expression of my love, but not a dear one.