Mon. Now this is well!
—I hate this Procida; for he hath won
In all our councils that ascendency
And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been
Mine by a thousand claims. Had he the strength
Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name—his country—
He strikes; my vengeance hath a deeper fount:
But there’s dark joy in this!—And fate hath barr’d
My soul from every other.
[Exit Montalba.