To mix the vileness of thy sordid lees
With the rich current of a baron's blood.
Aust. My heart is touch'd for him.—Much injur'd youth,
Suppress awhile this swelling indignation;
Plead for thy life.
Theod. I will not meanly plead;
Nor, were my neck bow'd to his bloody block,
If love's my crime, would I disown my love.
Count. Then, by my soul, thou diest!
Theod. And let me die: