Charles: As to-day you would
Have loosed her with a piercing—into death?
Hæmon: Rather, could I! Antonio—yet neither.
Since you, not he, are here, my passion melts
Into a plea. Humbly as manhood may—
Charles: This fever still?
Hæmon: This fever! Must I be
As ice while soiling flames leap out at her?
And passionless—as one cold in a trance?
Rigid while she in stealth is drugged to shame?
Be voiceless and be vain, unstung, and still?
I must wait softly while her innocence
Is drained as virgin freshness from the morn?—
Though he were twice Antonio and your son,
An emperor and a god, I would not!
Charles: Ever,
And ever bent upon Antonio?
Be not a torrent, boy, of rush and foam.
Be not, of roar!—Yet—look: Antonio?
You said Antonio?
Hæmon: Yes.
Charles (troubled): You did ill
To say it! He's my son.
Hæmon: I care not.
Charles: Have
You cause—a ground—some reason? Men should when
Suspicions curve their lips.
Hæmon: Cause! reason!