Pas. My Flavia say!
What is’t hath ruffled thus thy gentle bosom?
I fear our father hath occasion’d this;
For late, as passing through the hall I saw him,
He paced to and fro in great disorder:
Sometimes, in deep thought lost, he’d stop and pause,
Then o’er his troubled breast crossing his arms,
Would utter words, but in a voice so low,
That they distill’d themselves in gentle air.
Tho’ I did thrice address him, yet he brake