Ungriped and played with, till fierce hunger calls,
Then nature shews itself; the close-hid nails
Are stretched, and opened, to the panting prey.
But if, indeed, you are so cold a lover,—
Osw. Not cold, but honourable.
Arth. Then restore her:
That done, I shall believe you honourable.
Osw. Think'st thou I will forego a victor's right?
Arth. Say rather, of an impious ravisher.
That castle, were it walled with adamant,