Jul. Can you pretend to love, and see my grief Caused by yourself, yet give me no relief?
Gons. Where's my reward?
Jul. The honour of the flame.
Gons. I lose the substance, then, to gain the name.
Jul. I do too much mistress' power betray;
Must slaves be won by courtship to obey?
Thy disobedience does to treason rise,
Which thou, like rebels, would'st with love disguise.
I'll kill myself, and, if thou can'st deny
To see me happy, thou shalt see me die.
Gons. O stay! I can with less regret bequeath My love to Roderick, than you to death: And yet—
Jul. What new objection can you find?
Gons. But are you sure you never shall be kind?
Jul. Never.
Gons. What! never?