Ber. [To Oswald] You've woven a maze about me, and I'm blind
With 't, yet I see to pluck one truth,—my bride
Is Ardia. No other under Heaven! My lords,
It is the wine——
Osw. Would then 'twere in your throat!
Is this the riddle of your morning smile?
Your fair compliance, soft submission? Sir,
By my heart's blood, I'll give you to the sword
Ere you shall make me father to a drab—
The spoil of your own lust, the—What, you draw?
Ay, strike me down! Let me be first to fall
Beneath your mighty sword! The rust has lain
A lifetime on it, and a father's blood
May cleanse it bright as Heaven!
Ber. O, my Christ!
Osw. Yea, call on him, and he will hear thee too,
Who honorest so thy father!
[Bertrand stands speechless]
Now, my lords,
Since he no longer brays, I have a tale
To tell you. I, too, had a father, though
The world has long forgot him.
Fred. No, my friend.
Well do I bear in mind his fair, proud face,
And glory of his arms.
Osw. He was struck down
Because a minion, straying from the hearth,
Looked on his beauty with her nestling eyes.
Fred. For no more cause?
Osw. I swear it. Friends, if death
Were the cold price for kissing of a jade,
Who here would be alive? For so slight sin
Was my brave father murdered. Charilus, speak!
Was not the princely heart of John of Clyffe
Ripped with a hate-keen sword,—the sword of him
Who claimed the lordship of those rebel lips
That chose my father liege?
Char. It is too true.
Osw. Who better knows? Say that a wilding flies
The builded bower, hearing a lordlier song
Pass on the wind than her dull mate can tune,
Must then the singer die, who scarcely knows
His song is heard, or that a bold wing follows?