love!--

_Man_. Permit his death, and Julia will be yours.

_Jul_. Permit it not, and Julia will thank you.

_Gons_. Who e'er could think, that one kind word from Julia
Should be preferred to Julia herself?
Could any man think it a greater good
To save a rival, than possess a mistress?
Yet this I do! these are thy riddles, love!--
What fortune gives me, I myself destroy;
And feed my virtue, but to starve my joy.
Honour sits on me like some heavy armour,
And with its stiff defence, encumbers me;
And yet, when I would put it off, it sticks
Like Hercules's shirt; heats me at once;
And poisons me!

_Man_. I find myself grow calm by thy example;
My panting heart heaves less and less, each pulse;
And all the boiling spirits scatter from it.
Since thou desirest he should not die, he shall not,
'Till I on nobler terms can take his life.

_Rod_. The next turn may be yours.--Remember,
I owed this danger to your wilfulness:
Once, you might easily have been mine, and would
not. [_Exit_ RODORICK.

_Man_. Lead out my sister, friend; her hurt's so
small,
'Twill scarce disturb the ceremony.
Ladies, once more your pardons.

[_Leads out the Company. Exeunt_.

_Manent_ JULIA, GONSALVO, AMIDEO, _and_ HIPPOLITO. GONSALVO
_offers his hand,_ JULIA _pulls back hers_.

_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 o