_Jul_. This hand would rise in blisters, should'st
thou touch it!--
My Roderick's displeased with me, and thou,
Unlucky man, the cause. Dare not so much
As once to follow me. [_Exit_ JULIA.
_Gons_. Not follow her! Alas, she need not bid me!
Oh, how could I presume to take that hand,
To which mine proved so fatal!
Nay, if I might, should I not fear to touch it?--
murderer's touch would make it bleed afresh!
_Amid_. I think, sir, I could kill her for your sake.
_Gons_. Repent that word, or I shall hate thee
Strangely:
Harsh words from her, like blows from angry kings,
Though they are meant affronts, are construed favours.
_Hip_. Her inclinations and aversions
Are both alike unjust; and both, I hope,
Too violent to last: Chear up yourself;
for if I live, (I hope I shall not long) [_Aside_.
She shall be yours.
_Amid_. 'Twere much more noble in him,
To make a conquest of himself, than her.
She ne'er can merit him; and, hadst not thou
A mean low soul, thou wouldst not name her to him.
_Hip_. Poor child, who would'st be wise above thy years!
Why dost thou talk, like a philosopher,
Of conquering love, who art not yet grown up,
To try the force of any manly passion?
The sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet
Within thy veins, not soured and turned by love.
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