Ang[e]l. True, Violanta:
It grieves me much. Doll, go you instantly,
And find out Gerrard; tell him his friends hap,
And let him use best means to comfort him;
But as his life preserve this secret still.
Viol. Mother, I'ld not offend you: might not Gerrard
Steal in, and see me in the evening?
Angel. Well,
Bid him do so.
Viol. Heavens blessing o' your heart.
Do ye not call Child-bearing, Travel, Mother?
Angel. Yes.
Viol. It well may be, The bare-foot traveller
That's born a Prince, and walks his pilgrimage,
Whose tender feet kiss the remorseless stones
Only, ne'er felt a travel like to it.
Alas, dear Mother, you groan'd thus for me,
And yet how disobedient have I been!
Angel. Peace, Violanta, thou hast always been
Gentle and good.
Viol. Gerrard is better, Mother:
Oh if you knew the implicite innocency
Dwells in his brest, you'ld love him like your Prayers.
I see no reason but my Father might
Be told the truth, being pleas'd for Ferdinand
To wooe himself: and Gerard ever was
His full comparative: my Uncle loves him,
As he loves Ferdinand.
Angel. No, not for the world,
Since his intent is cross'd: lov'd Ferdinand
Thus ruin'd, and a child got out of wedlock:
His madness would pursue ye both to death.
Viol. As you please (mother:) I am now, methinks,
Even in the land of ease; I'll sleep.