Cam. My memory in this needs no refreshing.
Por. And how one evening (O that fatal hour!)
My brother, passing by Don Carlos' house
With his great friend and confidant, Don Pedro,
Did chance to see th' unfortunate Octavio
In your balcony entertaining me:
Whom not believing there he took for you;
My back being towards him, and both dress'd alike.
Enraged with jealousy, this cruel man
(To whom all moderation is unknown)
Resolves to stamp all your neglects of him
In's suppos'd rival, poor Octavio's, heart.
They take their stand i' th' corner of our street;
And after some little time Octavio,
Free from suspicion as design of ill,
Retires: they assault him, and in's own defence
He kills Don Pedro, and is forc'd to fly.
My brother cruelly pursues him still
With such insatiate thirst after revenge,
That nothing but Octavio's blood can quench:
Covering his ill-nature and suspicion
With the resentment of Don Pedro's death.
Cam. Is this the sum of your sad story, Porcia?
Is this all?
Por. No, no, Camilla, 'tis the prologue only:
The tragedy will follow. This brother,
To whose impetuous will my deceas'd parents
(May their souls rest in peace!) having condemn'd
Me and my fortune, treats me like a slave:
So far from suffering me to make my choice,
That he denounces death if I refuse;
And now, to frustrate all my hopes at once,
Has very lately made me sign a contract
To one in Flanders whom I never saw,[44]
And is this night (they say) expected here.
Cam. Is such a rigour possible, dear Porcia?
Por. Was ever misery like mine, Camilla?
Reduc'd to such extremes, past all relief?
If I acquaint my brother with my love
T' Octavio, the man whom he most hates,
I must expect the worst effects of fury:
If I endeavour to forget Octavio,
Even that attempt renews his memory,
And heightens my disquiet: if I refuse
To marry, I am lost: if I obey,
I cast Octavio and myself away.
Two such extremes of ill no choice admit.
Each seems the worst; on which rock shall I split?
Since, if I marry, I cannot survive,
And not to marry were to die alive.
Cam. Your story, I confess, is strangely moving;
Yet if you could my fortune weigh with yours
In scales of equal sensibility,
You would not change your sufferings for mine.
Por. What can there be in Nature more afflicting,
Than to be torn from th' object of my love,
And forc'd t' embrace a man whom I must hate?
Cam. Have you not known that object of your love,
And entertain'd the person you esteem?
Have you not heard, and answer'd to his sighs?
Has he not borne his part in all your cares?
Do you not live and reign within his heart?
Por. I doubt no more his faith than my hard fate.