Giov. Is there; no, yonder; indeed, sir, Ile not tell you,
For I shall make you weepe.
Fran. Is dead.
Giov. Do not blame me now,
I did not tell you so.
Lodovico. She’s dead, my lord.
Fran. Dead!
Monticelso. Blessed lady; thou art now above thy woes!
Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?
(Exeunt Ambassadors.)