Whom she did love, is lifeless clay,
My house is now a desert drear,
While I have great possessions; so
That my kin would have me wed my niece,
Or all our names and wealth do die
With us.
Count (apart to Verona). Tis but a miser's artful tale.
Antonio. I, who had hoped to know such sweet content,
My Julia wedded to this noble Count, and I
Arranged my bridal, too! Poor Julia! child
Sleeping in the silent tomb! and so
The world doth go. Ah me! ah me! and yet
Good Dorotea doth respond, and for our wedding seeks
A dispensation now from Rome.
Verona. If, then, no chance there be to save these wide estates
But thou to wed fair Dorotea, thy closest kin alive,
She will in thee most surely find
One ever ready to consult each wish;
For as Otavio and the Lady Julia now be dead,
So great a treasure for thy state as Dorotea is
Doth not Verona know.
Count. I join you, sir, in every hope of joy;
Mayst thou, Antonio, live both loving and beloved:
The heritage more seemly is, to rest with thee.
Antonio. Not so; still evil must be met.
I came to tell thee of these sad events,
Which, having fallen most crossly, thus
Do follow to their end.
Verona. Time doth plough gently o'er thy brow,
Grey hairs should ever command respect.
Unseemly 'tis to speak of age whene'er
