King. Oh! Don Lope!
Urr. I come not hither to repeat in words
The purport of so many past petitions,
My sorrows now put on a better face
Before your Highness’ presence. I beseech you
To hear me patiently.
King. Speak, Urrea, speak!
Urr. Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still
Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son,
Don Lope, loved a lady here; seduced her