Julia. Hard!
Hard as the steel, the hands that put them on.
Wal. Some one unrivets them!
Julia. The princess? ’Tis!
Wal. It is another page.
Julia. It is herself!
Wal. Her skin is fair; and his is berry-brown.
His locks are raven black; and hers are gold.
Julia. Love’s cunning of disguises! spite of locks,
Skin, vesture,—it is she, and only she
What will not constant woman do for love
That’s loved with constancy! Set her the task,
Virtue approving, that will baffle her!
O’ertax her stooping, patience, courage, wit!
My life upon it, ’tis the princess’ self,
Transformed into a page!
Wal. The dungeon door
Stands open, and you see beyond—
Julia. Her father!
Wal. No; a steed.