Jul. 'Tis that which makes me more unfortunate;
Because his sweetness must upbraid my hate.
The wounds of fortune touch me not so near;
I can my fate, but not his virtue, bear.
For my disdain with my esteem is raised;
He most is hated when he most is praised:
Such an esteem, as like a storm appears,
Which rises but to shipwreck what it bears.
Hip. Infection dwells upon my kindness, sure, Since it destroys even those whom it would cure.
[Cries, and exit.
Amid. Still weep, Hippolito; to me thy tears
Are sovereign, as those drops the balm-tree sweats.—
But, madam, are you sure you shall not love him?
I still fear.—
Jul. Thy fear will never let thee be a man.
Amid. Indeed I think it won't.
Jul. We are now Alone; what news from Roderick?
Amid. Madam, he begs you not to fear; he has A way, which, when you think all desperate, Will set you free.
Jul. If not, I will not live A moment after it.
Amid. Why? there's some comfort.