Rol. And rather than posterity shall have cause
To say I ruin'd all, divide the Dukedom,
I will accept the moiety.
Ott. I embrace it.
Soph. Divide me first, or tear me limb by limb,
And let them find as many several Graves
As there are villages in Normandy:
And 'tis less sin, than thus to weaken it.
To hear it mention'd doth already make me
Envy my dead Lord, and almost Blaspheme
Those powers that heard my prayer for fruitfulness,
And did not with my first birth close my womb:
To me alone my second blessing proves
My first of misery, for if that Heaven
Which gave me Rollo, there had staid his bounty,
And Otto, my dear Otto, ne're had been,
Or being, had not been so worth my love,
The stream of my affection had run constant
In one fair current, all my hopes had been
Laid up in one; and fruitful Normandy
In this division had not lost her glories:
For as 'tis now, 'tis a fair Diamond,
Which being preserv'd intire, exceeds all value,
But cut in pieces (though these pieces are
Set in fine gold by the best work-mans cunning)
Parts with all estimation: So this Dukedom,
As 'tis yet whole, the neighbouring Kings may covet,
But cannot compass; which divided, will
Become the spoil of every barbarous foe
That will invade it.
Gis. How this works in both!
Bal. Prince Rollo's eyes have lost their fire.
Gis. And anger, that but now wholly possessed
Good Otto, hath given place to pity.
Aub. End not thus Madam, but perfect what's so well begun.
Soph. I see in both, fair signs of reconcilement,
Make them sure proofs they are so: the Fates offer
To your free choice, either to live Examples
Of Piety, or wickedness: if the later
Blinds so your understanding, that you cannot
Pierce through her painted out-side, and discover
That she is all deformity within,
Boldly transcend all precedents of mischief,
And let the last, and the worst end of tyrannies,
The murther of a Mother, but begin
The stain of bloud you after are to heighten:
But if that vertue, and her sure rewards,
Can win you to accept her for your guide,
To lead you up to Heaven, and there fix you
The fairest Stars in the bright Sphere of honour;
Make me the parent of an hundred sons,
All brought into the world with joy, not sorrow,
And every one a Father to his Country,
In being now made Mother of your concord.
Rol. Such, and so good, loud fame for ever speak you.
Bal. I, now they meet like Brothers.