Prince. I know their business. Oh what a tempest does every breeze from that quarter raise in my bosom! Well, gentlemen?
Ar. Cesar, my lord, was telling me—
Prince. About his melancholy studies still? Pray tell me.
Ces. Nay, my lord, all melancholy flies from the sunshine of your presence.
Prince. What then?
Ces. I still distrust myself; Don Arias must, my lord, answer for me.
Prince. Don Arias, then?
Ar. (aside). Fresh confidence should bind me his anew. But comes too late.
Ces. (aside to Arias). Be careful what you say.
Ar. Trust me. (Cesar retires.)