Hæmon: Cruel! His soldiers waste
The bread of honesty, the hope of age!
Are drunken, bloody, indolent, and lust
To tear all innocence away and robe
Our loveliest in shame!—Yet me, a Greek,
He suddenly befriends!
Antonio (coming forward): Hæmon——
Hæmon: Ah, you?
Antonio: There's room between your tone and courtesy.
Hæmon: And shall be while I'm readier to bend
Over a beggar's pain than prince's fingers.
Antonio: And yet you know me better——
Hæmon: Than to believe
You're not Antonio, son of Charles di Tocca?
Antonio: I'd be your friend.
Hæmon: So would he: and he smiles.
Antonio: There are deep reasons for it.