So known—if not entreated—heretofore—
Though not by you—For, now I think again,
Of what should be your attestation worth,
You that of all my questionable subjects
Who knowing what, yet left me where, I was,
You least of all, Clotaldo, till the dawn
Of this first day that told it to myself?
Clo. Oh, let your Highness draw the line across
Fore-written sorrow, and in this new dawn
Bury that long sad night.