Wal. Wed whom?
Julia. Sir Thomas Clifford.
Wal. You’re right.
Julia. His rank and wealth are roots to doubt;
And while they lasted, still the weed would grow,
Howe’er you plucked it. No! That’s o’er—that’s done.
Was never lady wronged so foul as I! [Weeps.]
Wal. Thou’rt to be pitied.
Julia. [Aroused.] Pitied! Not so bad
As that.
Wal. Indeed thou art, to love the man
That spurns thee!
Julia. Love him! Love! If hate could find
A word more harsh than its own name, I’d take it,
To speak the love I bear him! [Weeps.]
Wal. Write thy own name,
And show him how near akin thy hate’s to hate.
Julia. [Writes.] ’Tis done!