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Which has no words.—Friend, father, Portia's father! The thought creates in me such sudden joy, I am bewilder'd with it.

Calm thy spirits.— Thou should'st in meeter form have known it sooner, Had not the execution of those Christians— (Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile, With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,) Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres— Thou owest him thanks—pled for thee powerfully, And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me? Thy face wears many colours, and big drops Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips Quiver, like one in pain.

What sudden illness racks thee?

I may not tell you now: let me depart.

Thou art my promised son; I have a right To know whate'er concerns thee,— pain or pleasure.