Till his return from Spain. Ah, Porcia,
When yet did love not thrive by secrecy?
We parted—he relying on my promise,
I on his quick return. Oh, mad are those
Who, knowing that a storm is up, will yet
Put out to sea, Alvaro went—my father
Urged on this marriage with my cousin. Oh!—
Por. You are ill, Serafina!
Ser. Nothing—nothing—
I reason’d—wept—implored—excused—delay’d—