Lug. Does she not love ye? does not her distraction
For your sake only, her most pitied lunacie
Of all but you, shew ye? does it not compel ye?
Mir. Soft and fair, Gentlemen, pray ye proceed temperately.
Lug. If ye have any feeling, any sense in ye,
The least touch of a noble heart.
La Cas. Let him alone;
It is his glory that he can kill Beauty,
Ye bear my Stamp, but not my Tenderness;
Your wild unsavoury Courses set that in ye!
For shame, be sorry, though ye cannot cure her,
Shew something of a Man, of a fair Nature.
Mir. Ye make me mad.
De-Gard. Let me pronounce this to ye,
You take a strange felicity in slighting
And wronging Women, which my poor Sister feels now,
Heavens hand be gentle on her: Mark me, Sir,
That very hour she dies, there's small hope otherwise,
That minute you and I must grapple for it,
Either your life or mine.
Mir. Be not so hot, Sir,
I am not to be wrought on by these policies,
In truth I am not; Nor do I fear the tricks,
Or the high sounding threats of a Savoyan;
I glory not in Cruelty, ye wrong me;
Nor grow up water'd with the tears of Women;
This let me tell ye, howsoe'r I shew to ye,
Wild, as ye please to call it, or self-will'd;
When I see cause I can both do and suffer,
Freely, and feelingly, as a true Gentleman.
Enter Rosalure, and Lilia.
Ros. O pity, pity, thousand, thousand pities!
Lil. Alas poor Soul! she will dye; she is grown sensless;
She will not know, nor speak now.