Pent in your close confessionals you sit,

  Bending your reverend ears to amorous secrets.

 Aust. Scoffer, no more! stop thy licentious tongue;

  Turn inward to thy bosom, and reflect—

 Count. That is, be fool'd. Yet will I grant his life,

  On one condition.

 Aust. Name it.

 Count. Join my hand

  To Isabel.

 Aust. Not for the world.

 Count. He dies.

 Theodore brought in. 

Theodore

   Come near, thou wretch! When call'd before me first,

   With most unwonted patience I endur'd

   Thy bold avowal of the wrong thou didst me;

   A wrong so great, that, but for foolish pity,

   Thy life that instant should have made atonement;

   But now, convicted of a greater crime,

   Mercy is quench'd: therefore prepare to die.

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