Maybe thou hast never tasted, prince, this sorrow,
When fortune smiling upon those we love
Removes them from our reach—when we awake
To our small reckoning in the circumstance
We are grown to lean on.—Cursèd be the day
Whereon we met: or would thou hadst slain me there—
My wrongs are worse than death.
Fer.How! can it be?
Tell me but truth. Art thou my rival, Sala?
Thou art: thou art. Yet ’twas thyself deceived me.