Clif. Well, Master Walter?
Wal. A young woman’s heart, sir,
Is not a stone to carve a posy on!
Which knows not what is writ on’t; which you may buy,
Exchange, or sell, sir, keep or give away, sir:
It is a richer—yet a poorer thing;
Priceless to him that owns and prizes it;
Worthless, when owned, not prized; which makes the man
That covets it, obtains it, and discards it—
A fool, if not a villain, sir.
Clif. Well, sir?
Wal. You never loved my ward, sir!
Clif. The bright Heavens
Bear witness that I did!
Wal. The bright Heavens, sir,
Bear not false witness. That you loved her not
Is clear—for had you loved her, you’d have plucked
Your heart from out your breast, ere cast her from your heart!
Old as I am, I know what passion is.
It is the summer’s heat, sir, which in vain
We look for frost in. Ice, like you, sir, knows
But little of such heat! We are wronged, sir, wronged!
You wear a sword, and so do I.
Clif. Well, sir!
Wal. You know the use, sir, of a sword?
Clif. I do.
To whip a knave, sir, or an honest man!
A wise man or a fool—atone for wrong,
Or double the amount on’t! Master Walter,
Touching your ward, if wrong is done, I think
On my side lies the grievance. I would not say so
Did I not think so. As for love—look, sir,
That hand’s a widower’s, to its first mate sworn
To clasp no second one. As for amends, sir,
You’re free to get them from a man in whom
You’ve been forestalled by fortune, for the spite
Which she has vented on him, if you still
Esteem him worth your anger. Please you read
That letter. Now, sir, judge if life is dear
To one so much a loser.
Wal. What, all gone!
Thy cousin living they reported dead!