Don A. O heavens! what is't I see? It is Octavio,
My friend.
Don O. Not thy friend, Antonio, but 'tis Octavio,
Who by thy perfidy has been betray'd
To this forlorn condition; but, vile man,
Thou now shalt pay thy treachery with thy life.
[Don Octavio makes at Don Antonio.
Don A. Hold, Octavio! though thy injurious error
May transport thee, it shall not me, beyond
The bounds of honour. Heaven knows I thought
Of nothing less than what I find—Octavio
In this place.
Don H. What pause is this, Antonio? All your fervour
In the concernments of a brother-in-law
Reduc'd to a tame parley with our enemy?
Do all the promises you have made to me,
T' assist my just revenge, conclude in this?
Don O. Do all the promises you have made to me,
T' assist my virtuous love, conclude in this?
Don H. Where is your wonted bravery?
Where your kindness to such a near ally?
Don O. Where is your former honour? where your firmness
To such an ancient friend?
Don A. What course shall my distracted honour steer,
Betwixt these equal opposite engagements? [Aside.
Don H. What, demur still? nay, then I'll right myself.