He breaks.
Fronia. Your grief is more than his deserts.
Each fault requires an equal hate: be not severe,
Where crimes be light. As you have felt, so grieve.
Guenevera. And seems it light to want him nine year space
Then to be spoil’d of one I hold more dear?
Think all too much, b’it ne’er so just, that feeds
Continual grief: the lasting woe is worst.
Fronia. Yet let your highness shun these desperate moods:
Cast off this rage and fell-disposed mind.