Austin

 Aust. I do believe thee very barbarous;

   Nay, fear thy reason touch'd; for such wild thoughts,

   Such bloody purposes, could ne'er proceed

   From any sober judgment;—yet thy heart

   Will sure recoil at this.

 Count. Why, think so still;

   Think me both ruffian-like, and lunatic;

   One proof at least I'll give of temperate reason,—

   Not to be baited from my fix'd design

   By a monk's ban, or whining intercession.

 Aust. Thou canst not mean to do it.

 Count. Trust thine eyes.

   Thybalt! bring forth the prisoner; bid my marshal

   Prepare an axe. The ceremony's short;

   One stroke, and all is past. Before he die,

   He shall have leave to thank your godliness,

   For speeding him so soon from this bad world.

 Aust. Where is the right, the law, by which you doom him?

 Count. My will's the law.

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