Prince. ’Tis well that you should mask
Ill news under sweet music: though, indeed,
A treason to make sweet the poison’d cup.
Por. Who more than I—
Enter Julia within, hurried.
Julia. Madam, madam, your father
Is gone into the garden—I hear his steps.
Por. Nay then——(Sings)
Love’s second is a poison’d dart,
And Jealousy is named: