Don C. Y' are too severe a judge of points of honour.
Don H. And therefore, having not long since receiv'd
The news that Don Antonio de Mendoza
Is likely to be here this night from Flanders,
To whom my sister, by th' intervention
O' th' Marquis d'Olivera, is contracted,
I will not close these eyes, till I have seen
Her and my cares safe lodg'd within his arms.
Don C. I find your travels, cousin, have not cur'd you
Of that innate severity to women,
Urg'd justly as a national reproach
To all of us abroad. The rest o' th' world
Lament that tender sex amongst us here,
Born only to be honourable prisoners;
The greater quality, the closer kept:
Which cruelty is reveng'd upon ourselves,
Whilst, by immuring those whom most we love,
We sing, and sigh only to iron gates.
As cruel is that overcautious custom
By proxy to contract parties unknown
To one another; this is only fit
For sovereign princes, whose high qualities
Will not allow of previous interviews:
They sacrifice their love to public good,
Consulting interest of state and blood;
A custom which as yet I never knew
Us'd amongst persons of a lower rank
Without a sequel of sad accidents.
Sir, understand me right; I speak not this
By way of prophecy: I am no stranger
To Don Antonio's reputation,
Which I believe so just, I no way doubt
Your sister's being happy in him.
Don H. Don Carlos, let us quit this argument:
I am now going to our noble friend
And kinsman, the corregidor, to see
If he'll oblige us with his company
At my sister's wedding. Will you come along?
Don C. Most willingly, as soon as I have brought
My sister hither, who has given this evening
To her cousin Porcia.
Don H. I have business, cousin, by the way;
I'll go before, and wait you i' th' Piazza.
Your servant, sir.
[Don Henrique waits on him to the door. Exit Don Carlos.
Don H. This kinsman is my bosom friend; and yet,
Of all men living, I must hide from him
My deep resentments of his sister's scorn.
That cruel maid, to wound me to the heart,
Then close her ears against my just complaints!
But though as yet I cannot heal my wound,
I may by my revenge upon my rival
Divert the pain; and I will drive it home.
There's in revenge a balm which will appease
The present grief, till[42] time cure the disease.
[Exit Don Henrique.
Enter Porcia.