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I should have thought of this before I went, And urged him earnestly that no remissness With thy relations may retard our bliss.

Are we not happy now? Is marriage bliss? I fear to think of it.

Why should'st thou fear? Shall I be jealous? O my gentle Beatrice! I never will believe thee false to me, Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright Shall flash upon me, and the agony Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.

And art thou, then, so tender in thy nature? In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.

Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle Love. Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee. I feel within my breast a strong assurance Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious. Where may I find Don Guzman?[Exeunt.