Is safe as gem that at earth's centre burns.
La. Alb. Nay, I'll not live! You know not Albemarle!
He'll scourge me through the court in rags to match
My tattered virtue,—then the rack—fire—screws—
The Scotch boot—O, the world's not dear enough
To purchase so. I will not live!
Hub. I swear
That Roland cares so much for Glaia's birth
As to be glad she's born. And at my word
He will receive her questionless and dumb,