And what they whisper they are fain to make.
The nobles huddle in uncertainty,
Like sheep that meet a cart, the dog behind.
On the Rialto, ere I left this morning,
The hoarse-voiced makers of the books, whose leaves
Are I. O. U.'s to ruin, vainly laid
Long odds upon the widow.
Rom.'Tis not death?
Ber. Nay, only banishment. Whoever breaks
A promise made to wed, to exile goes.