At Salvatierra. But, fair Isabel,
How blest am I on whom the star of beauty,
Bright rival of the sun,
Beams out such rays of love!
Isab. Stand off! Away!
Not rays of love, whatever heretofore
I and my beauty may have beam’d, Baptista,
But now, if rays at all, lightnings of rage
And indignation from my heart and eyes.
Approach them at your peril! What, false traitor,