I love too little.
Mar.’Tis this hateful prison
Hath chilled thy spirits. When again thou’rt free
Thou’lt be Giovanni.
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Pal.Canst thou love me so?
Mar. O, what hath come to thee? Did I not love
The hour I bound thy wound: the day I brought
Rosso to heal thee, and led thee by the hand,
Threading the blindest midnight silently,