To act my bitterest enemy unawares,
I might believe some babbler—
Prince. Nay, Don Cesar,
If in all these cross purposes of love
You recognise the secret hand of fate,
Accuse no mortal tongue, which could not reach
The stars that rule us all, wag as it would.
Enough. I am aggrieved, and not, I think,
Unjustly, that without my pleasure, nay,
Without my knowledge even, you, my subject,