Were she my Father and my Mother too, and all the names for which
we think folks friends, she should be forc't to have him when I
know 'tis fit: I will not hear her say she's loth.
Heaven bring my purpose luckily to pass, you know 'tis just, she
will not need constraint she loves you so.
How does she love me, speak?
She loves you more than people love their health,
that live by labour; more than I could love a man that died
for me, if he could live again.
She is not like her mother then.
O no, when you were in Armenia,
I durst not let her know when you were hurt:
For at the first on every little scratch,
She kept her Chamber, wept, and could not eat,
Till you were well, and many times the news
Was so long coming, that before we heard
She was as near her death, as you your health.
Alas poor soul, but yet she must be rul'd;
I know not how I shall requite her well.
I long to see her, have you sent for her,
To tell her I am ready?
Enter 1 Gent, and Tigranes.
