With rapid force, upon us, well might urge me,
Like sinking men who grasp at idle straws,
To accept thy service. Yet, thou may'st be false,
And lead my boy to his destruction.—Say,—
What sureties, fellow, have I of thy truth?
Gondi. Think on the awe-inspiring air that marks
A royal brow, and makes the trait'rous soul
Shrink at its own suggestion.—And, when care,
With envious weight, invades the diadem,
To aim an injury then—'twere monstrous baseness!