Lorenzo.
No; 'would he had! [Aside.
Castile.
Hieronimo, I hear
You find yourself aggrieved at my son,
Because you have not access unto the king;
And say, 'tis he that intercepts your suits.
Hieronimo.
Why, is not this a miserable thing, my lord?
Castile.
Hieronimo, I hope you have no cause,
And would be loth that one of your deserts
Should once have reason to suspect my son,
Considering how I think of you myself.
Hieronimo.
Your son Lorenzo! whom, my noble lord?
The hope of Spain, mine honourable friend?
Grant me the combat of them, if they dare: