Doct. Most certain, lady.
Duke. Why, la, you now, you’ll not believe me. Friends,
Swear we not all? had we not much to do?
Servants. Yes, indeed, my lord, much.
Duke. Death drew such fearful pictures in thy face,
That were Hippolito alive again,
I’d kneel and woo the noble gentleman
To be thy husband: now I sore repent
My sharpness to him, and his family;
Nay, do not weep for him; we all must die—
Doctor, this place where she so oft hath seen
His lively presence, hurts her, does it not?
Doct. Doubtless, my lord, it does.
Duke. It does, it does:
Therefore, sweet girl, thou shalt to Bergamo.
Inf. Even where you will; in any place there’s woe.
Duke. A coach is ready, Bergamo doth stand
In a most wholesome air, sweet walks; there’s deer,
Ay, thou shalt hunt and send us venison,
Which like some goddess in the Cyprian groves,
Thine own fair hand shall strike;—Sirs, you shall teach her
To stand, and how to shoot; ay, she shall hunt:
Cast off this sorrow. In, girl, and prepare
This night to ride away to Bergamo.
Inf. O most unhappy maid! [Exit.
Duke. Follow her close.
No words that she was buried, on your lives!
Or that her ghost walks now after she’s dead;
I’ll hang you if you name a funeral.