Inf. O God, what fearful dreams! [Wakening.
Doct. Lady.
Inf. Ha!
Duke. Girl.
Why, Infelice, how is’t now, ha, speak?
Inf. I’m well—what makes this doctor here?—I’m well.
Duke. Thou wert not so even now, sickness’ pale hand
Laid hold on thee even in the midst of feasting;
And when a cup crowned with thy lover’s health
Had touched thy lips, a sensible cold dew
Stood on thy cheeks, as if that death had wept
To see such beauty alter.
Inf. I remember
I sate at banquet, but felt no such change.
Duke. Thou hast forgot, then, how a messenger
Came wildly in, with this unsavory news,
That he was dead?
Inf. What messenger? who’s dead?
Duke. Hippolito. Alack! wring not thy hands.