Theod. Thy daughter! O, I were, indeed, too bless'd,

   Could I but live to render her a service!

 Count. My daughter, would, I hope, disdain thy service.

 Theod. Wherefore am I to blame? What I have done,

   Were it to do again, again I'd do it.

   And may this arm drop palsied by my side,

   When its cold sinews shrink to aid affliction!

 Count. Indeed!

 Theod. Indeed. Frown on.—Ask thy own heart,—

   Did innocence and beauty bend before thee,

   Hunted, and trembling, wouldst thou tamely pause,

   Scanning pale counsel from deliberate fear,

   And weigh each possibility of danger?

   No; the instinctive nobleness of blood

   Would start beyond the reach of such cold scruples,

   And instant gratify its generous ardour.

 Count. [Aside.] I must know more of this. His phrase, his look,

[Aside.]

   His steady countenance, raise something here,

   Bids me beware of him.—I have no time

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