Might save a world of anguish to my soul,
And smooth my unwelcome purpose to Hortensia.
But how prevail with him?—Ambition?—No;
The world is dead in him, and gold is trash
To one, who neither needs, nor values it.
Interest and love shall wear the guise of conscience;
I must pretend nice scruples, which I feel not,
And make him mediate for me with the church.
Yet he reveres the countess; and, I fear,
Will spy more sin, in doubts that wound her quiet,