Would lend his ready arm, and mock my caution.
Theod. Thy daughter! O, I were, indeed, too bless'd,
Could I but live to render her a service!
Count. My daughter, would, I hope, disdain thy service.
Theod. Wherefore am I to blame? What I have done,
Were it to do again, again I'd do it.
And may this arm drop palsied by my side,
When its cold sinews shrink to aid affliction!
Count. Indeed!
Theod. Indeed. Frown on.—Ask thy own heart,—