SANCIA.
But we are dead afraid.
ADRIANA.
Ah, you have cause!
SANCIA.
What cause? Ippolito is fled.
LUCREZIA.
Ippolito—your beautiful Ippolito!
Poor little Sancia.
[Putting her arms round Alfonso.
But you must not fly—
Never again. Carissimo, I want you
For the bloom of every hour.