Enter Frederick, and Sorano.
Fred. Hast thou been with him?
Sor. Yes, and given him that Sir
Will make him curse his Birth; I told ye which way.
Did you but see him Sir, but look upon him,
With what a troubled and dejected nature
He walks now in a mist, with what a silence,
As if he were the shrowd he wrapt himself in,
And no more of Valerio but his shadow,
He seeks obscurity to hide his thoughts in,
You would wonder and admire for all you know it,
His jollity is down, valed to the ground Sir,
And his high hopes of full delights and pleasures
Are turn'd tormenters to him, strong diseases.
Fred. But is there hope of her?
Sor. It must fall necessary,
She must dislike him, quarrel with his person,
For women once deluded are next Devils,
And in the height of that opinion Sir,
You shall put on again, and she must meet ye.
Fred. I am glad of this.
Sor. I'le tell ye all the circumstance
Within this hour, but sure I heard your grace
To day as I attended, make some stops,
Some broken speech[e]s, and some sighs between,
And then your Brothers name I heard distinctly,
And some sad wishes after.
Fred. Ye are i'th' right Sir,
I would he were as sad as I could wish him,
Sad as the Earth.
Sor. Would ye have it so?
Fred. Thou hearest me,
Though he be sick with small hope of recovery,
That hope still lives, and mens eyes live upon it,
And in their eye their wishes; my Sorano,
Were he but cold once in the tomb he dotes on,
As 'tis the fittest place for melancholy,
My Court should be another Paradise,
And flow with all delights.