In vain—O mercy, Heaven!
Por. Tell me no more:
It is too much for you.
Ser. Then suddenly
We heard that he was dead—your brother—drown’d—
They married me—and now perhaps he lives
They say—Porcia, can it be?—I know not
Whether to hope or dread if that be true:—
And every wind that blows your father hope
Makes my blood cold; I know that I shall meet him,