I wish thee well. There’s not a purer spirit
Fleshed in all Sicily; nay, nor a man
I’d sooner call brother. Why, ’twas my choice,
Long urged in vain. That chanceth in an hour
Which comes not in nine years. ’Tis very true,
Fancy resents all judgment, and another’s
Will often kill it quite. Now, when I looked
Rather for anything than my own wish,—heigh-ho!
’Tis I that stand in the way. I must discourage it.
Enter Philip (with some papers).