Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine: I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Received a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me.

I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness!

There, sir, stop: Let us not burthen our remembrance with A heaviness that’s gone.

I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown! For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way Which brought us hither.