Against thy daughter's shame! These are the things

That make it pain to live: all precious gifts,

Honour, observance, virtue, flung away

For one o'ermastering passion. Why are we

Above the brute so far, if we keep still

The weakness of the brute? Go from my sight,

Thou vile, degraded wretch. For him whose craft

And wickedness has wronged thee, this I swear—

I will kill him, if I can, or he shall me.

I will call on him to draw, and make my sword

Red with a villain's blood.

Ire. (eagerly).

Nay, nay, my brother,

That would proclaim my shame; and shouldst thou slay him,

Thou wouldst break thy lady's heart.

Theo.

Doth she so love him?

65

65

Ire. Ay, passionately, brother.

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