Leon. Your pity, madam,
Is generous, but 'tis unavailable.
Amal. You know not till 'tis tried.
Your sorrows are no secret; you have lost
A crown, and mistress.
Leon. Are not these enough?
Hang two such weights on any other soul,
And see if it can bear them.
Amal. More; you are banished, by my brother's means,
And ne'er must hope again to see your princess;
Except as prisoners view fair walks and streets,
And careless passengers going by their grates,
To make them feel the want of liberty.
But, worse than all,
The king this morning has enjoined his daughter
To accept my brother's love.
Leon. Is this your pity?
You aggravate my griefs, and print them deeper,
In new and heavier stamps.
Amal. 'Tis as physicians show the desperate ill,
To endear their art, by mitigating pains
They cannot wholly cure: When you despair
Of all you wish, some part of it, because
Unhoped for, may be grateful; and some other—
Leon. What other?
Amal. Some other may—
My shame again has seized me, and I can go [Aside.
No farther.
Leon. These often failing sighs and interruptions
Make me imagine you have grief like mine:
Have you ne'er loved?
Amal. I? never!—'Tis in vain:
I must despair in silence. [Aside.