Obscure to thee alone?—I have found the cause.

   There is no crime our holy church abhors,

   Not one high Heaven more strongly interdicts,

   Than that commixture, by the marriage rite,

   Of blood too near, as mine is to Hortensia.

 Aust. Too near of blood! oh, specious mockery!

   Where have these doubts been buried twenty years?

   Why wake they now? And am I closetted

   To sanction them? Take back your hasty words,

   That call'd me wise or virtuous; while you offer

   Such shallow fictions to insult my sense,

   And strive to win me to a villain's office.

 Count. The virtue of our churchmen, like our wives,

   Should be obedient meekness. Proud resistance,

   Bandying high looks, a port erect and bold,

   Are from the canon of your order, priest.

   Learn this, for here will I be teacher, Austin;

   Our temporal blood must not be stirr'd thus rudely:

   A front that taunts, a scanning, scornful brow,

   Are silent menaces, and blows unstruck.

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