You must not be Don Garcia's; swear you will not.
Vict. I swear I will not, by my own consent.
Alph. You may be forced;—oh, cursed jealousy,
Thou bastard son of Love, unlike thy father,
Why dost thou still torment me?
Vict. Trust my honour.
Alph. That may be chafed into a warmth, Victoria.
Talk, seeing, touching, are incendiaries;
And these may mount your young desires like straw,
To meet the jett that draws you.