_Con._ Margaret, you know I have none at all but you To unfold my heart to: only you can tell What I must feel at his return: you know How far I loved, how much I was deceived. His oaths of faith you heard from me, and shared The joy of my delusion: and at last, When he deserted me, you made your heart The prison of my sorrows: you exhorted,— 480 O, you advised me well,—Be sure, you said, Love that so breaks cannot be trusted more. You bade me cast it off like an ill dream. You found what life he led: how he profaned His honourable passion in the play Of errant gallantries. All that sad time I leaned on you, and ’twas your friendship gave The occasions whence my love with Manuel sprung. You led me still, you gave me confidence; Your comfort turned to joy, Manuel was mine. 490 When suddenly on some mysterious cause He holds aloof: my joy is bid await. O, Margaret, if you understood love’s joy, How closely ’tis inwoven with fear to lose, You would not wonder that I tremble, seeing This shadow blot my sunshine, that my fear Discolours every circumstance. To me The common course of things on which men count Is the only miracle, all chances else As they are feared are likely. O, do not blame me. Philip is like an evil spirit beside me 501 That stands to smile on what I dread to think. _Mar._ Philip being false can give no cause to doubt Of Manuel’s faith. _Con._ I doubt him not: and yet If I speak of my brother you only laugh, But if you speak of yours ... _Mar._ Round, round again. Betwixt our brothers grant some difference. Thy Livio is a boy of slender parts, Led by his passions. Manuel is a man Austere and stern; he is above suspicion. 510 _Con._ I do not doubt his truth, but find such sternness Unkind to love. My brother’s love for you Is simple: Manuel’s love hath some reserve; A veil, behind which, since I have never seen, I have dreamed or feared a terror lay: ofttimes When I have been with him, a pleasant hour Has ended suddenly, as if his spirit Was angered, and withdrew: then in his eyes Is nothing left but barren contemplation, To which I am an object as another; 520 Until he sighs, as conscious of the change. The disappointment of our marriage brings Scarce a regret to him: I heard him speak Late to my father of it, as ’twere a thing He held indifferently. There is some secret Which I would know: maybe this is a clue. _Mar._ What is the clue? _Con._ This lady. _Mar._ O, thou’rt sick. But I can cure thee, wilt thou do my bidding. _Con._ What would you bid?