Juan. My palette then.
Enter Serafina.
Ser. How often and how often do I draw
My resolution out upon one side,
And all my armed sorrows on the other,
To fight the self-same battle o’er again!
Juan. He stands in the way; I cannot see her face.
Bel. Still weeping, madam?
Ser. Wonder not, Belardo:
The only balm I have. You pity me: