Thy sport, misfortune, from his infant years!—

   Wilt thou pursue him still?

 Jaq. Indeed, 'tis hard.

 Adel. But, oh, the pang, that these ungrateful walls

   Should be his prison! Here, if I were aught,

   His presence should have made it festival;

   These gates, untouch'd, had leap'd to give him entrance,

   And songs of joy made glad the way before him.

   Instead of this, think what has been his welcome!

   Dragg'd by rude hands before a furious judge,

   Insulted, menac'd, like the vilest slave,

   And doom'd, unheard, to ignominious bondage.

 Jaq. Your father knew not of his service to you?

 Adel. No, his indignant soul disdain'd to tell it.

   Great spirits, conscious of their inborn worth,

   Scorn by demand, to force the praise they merit;

   They feel a flame beyond their brightest deeds,

   And leave the weak to note them, and to wonder.

 Jaq. Suppress these strong emotions. The count's eye

   Is quick to find offence. Should he suspect

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