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(He hates her formal prosing)—that I trow, Will cure him of such princely modes of sending His gifts to me.—But ye are wondrous grave. What ails thee, brother? Speak, good Montebesa; I fear he is not well.

He is not very well.

Indeed he is not.

A passing fit of fever has disturb'd me, But mind it not, Artina.

Nay, nay, but I will mind it, gentle brother. And I have learnt this morning cheering news,— Good news for thee and all sick folk beside.

We want good news; what is it thou hast heard?

De Creda, who, by physic magical, Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady, When at the point of death, is just arrived. Where he hath been these two long year and more