Tor. Never was fatal mischief meant so kind,
For all she gave has taken all away.
Malicious powers! is this to be restored?
'Tis to be worse deposed than Sancho was.
Raym. Heaven has restored you, you depose yourself.
Oh, when young kings begin with scorn of justice,
They make an omen to their after reign,
And blot their annals in the foremost page.
Tor. No more; lest you be made the first example,
To show how I can punish.
Raym. Once again:
Let her be made your father's sacrifice,
And after make me hers.
Tor. Condemn a wife!
That were to atone for parricide with murder.
Raym. Then let her be divorced: we'll be content
With that poor scanty justice; let her part.
Tor. Divorce! that's worse than death, 'tis death of love.
Leo. The soul and body part not with such pain,
As I from you; but yet 'tis just, my lord:
I am the accurst of heaven, the hate of earth,
Your subjects' detestation, and your ruin;
And therefore fix this doom upon myself.
Tor. Heaven! Can you wish it, to be mine no more?
Leo. Yes, I can wish it, as the dearest proof,
And last, that I can make you of my love.
To leave you blest, I would be more accurst
Than death can make me; for death ends our woes,
And the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene:
But I would live without you, to be wretched long;
And hoard up every moment of my life,
476 To lengthen out the payment of my tears,
Till even fierce Raymond, at the last, shall say,—
Now let her die, for she has grieved enough.