For Spain, let tell her cities sack’d, her sons
Slaughter’d, her daughters than thine own dear child
More foully wrong’d, more wretched! For thyself,
Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and perhaps
The cup was sweet: but it hath left behind
A bitter relish! Gladly would thy soul
Forget the past; as little canst thou bear
To send into futurity thy thoughts:
And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear....
However bravely thou may’st bear thy front, ...