Gons. O barbarous jealousy!
Jul. 'Tis an harsh word: I am too pure for thee; but yet I love thee.
[Offers to take his hand.
Rod. Away, foul impudence.
Gons. Madam, you wrong Your virtue, thus to clear it by submission.
Jul. Whence grows this boldness, sir? did I ask you To be my champion?
Rod. He chose to be your friend, and not your husband: Left that dull part of dignity to me; As often the worst actors play the kings.
Jul. This jealousy is but excess of passion, Which grows up, wild, in every lover's breast; But changes kind when planted in an husband.
Rod. Well, what I am, I am; and what I will be, When you are mine, my pleasure shall determine. I will receive no law from any man.
Jul. This strange unkindness of my Rodorick
I owe to thee, and thy unlucky love;
Henceforth go lock it up within thy breast;
'Tis only harmless while it is concealed,
But, opened, spreads infection like a vault.
Go, and my curse go with thee!—