Bardas: I've sought you, Hæmon. Antonio? We are
Well met then: to your doors my want was bent
With a request.
Antonio: Which gladly I shall hear
And if I can will grant.
Bardas: My haste is blunt—
As is my tongue.
Hæmon: Then yield it us at once,
Our mood is so.
Bardas: Hæmon, I love your sister.
Not love: I am idolatrous before
Her foot's least print, and cannot breathe or pray
But where she's sometime been and left a heaven!
Hæmon: Therefore you'll cry it maudlin at the streets?
Bardas: Necessity's not over delicate.
Antonio, sue for me. You have been apt
In all love's skill they say. My oath on it
Your words once sown upon her listening
Would not lie fruitless did they bid her yield
More than her most.
Hæmon: Bardas! Do you—Does such
Unseemliness run in your thought?
Bardas: Peace, Hæmon.
Antonio, speak.
Antonio: You're strange in this request.
Helena, whom I've seen, would little thank
The eyes that told her own where they should love.