Riche. Respect.
Wid. I give it where 'tis due: never where not.
Riche. Wretch! knowst of what thou art accused?—of arts
Which make obedient slaves and friends of devils.
Wid. And thou of hell's worst crimes—of pride, of murder.
Richemont, I know thee, who thou art and what!
Put up thy ready dagger; I despise it—
Ay, mock thy wrath! my misery is my safeguard;
None care, not even thou, to murder one
Who would most gladly die!
Riche. What thus unnerves
My arm and chains my tongue?
Wid. Thy wishes too,
Thy aim I know. The maid has roused thy hate,
And thou wouldst work her fall:—'tis worthy thee.
There is no need of aiding hand of thine—
Her lamp burns dim, to utter darkness dim.
Riche. (aside. Ha! that were worth belief! but true or false
They must be seen together, and report
Be spread the fiend himself had tempted her.)
Not hate, mine is good will. France needs her arm,
Yet doth she hesitate. Go, seek her quick!
(I will secure thee,) win her to comply,
And richly paint the glory which awaits her.
Wid. Thinkst thou that she will heed what I might say?
She cannot if she would; none may avoid
Their fated hour!—thine too is fixed, and mine!
And, oh, that it were come!
Riche. Dost thou refuse?
Wid. I neither do refuse nor promise thee;
My inclination is my law, and mark!
None else will I obey.