MADAN.
Thy sire was sure less man than snake,
Though mine miscall thee brother.
CAMBER.
Coward or mad?
Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heart
Envenoms so thy tongue toward one that had
No thought less kindly—toward even thee that art
Kindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part?
MADAN.
Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongue
Would turn my blood to poison, while it stung
Thy brother’s fame to death. I know my sire
As shame knows thee—and better no man knows
Aught.
CAMBER.
Have thy will, then: take thy full desire:
Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blows
Welcome: being harsh with friends, be mild with foes,
And give shame thanks for buffets. Yet I thought—
But how should help avail where heart is nought?
MADAN.
Yet—thou didst think to help me?