Jaff. O Portia! Portia! what a soul was thine!
Belv. That Portia was a woman; and when Brutus,
Big with the fate of Rome—Heaven guard thy safety!—
Concealed from her the labours of his mind,
She let him see her blood was great as his,
Flowed from a spring as noble, and a heart
Fit to partake his troubles as his love.
Fetch, fetch that dagger back, the dreadful dower
Thou gavest last night in parting with me; strike it
Here to my heart; and as the blood flows from it,
Judge if it run not pure as Cato's daughter's.
Jaff. Thou art too good, and I indeed unworthy,
Unworthy so much virtue: teach me how
I may deserve such matchless love as thine,
And see with what attention I'll obey thee.
Belv. Do not despise me: that's the all I ask.
Jaff. Despise thee! hear me—
Belv. Oh, thy charming tongue
Is but too well acquainted with my weakness;
Knows, let it name but love, my melting heart
Dissolves within my breast; till with closed eyes
I reel into thy arms, and all's forgotten.
Jaff. What shall I do?
Belv. Tell me—be just, and tell me,
Why dwells that busy cloud upon thy face?
Why am I made a stranger? why that sigh,
And I not know the cause? why when the world
Is wrapped in rest, why chooses then my love
To wander up and down in horrid darkness,
Loathing his bed, and these desiring arms?
Why are these eyes blood-shot with tedious watching?
Why starts he now, and looks as if he wished
His fate were finished? Tell me, ease my fear,
Lest, when we next time meet, I want the power
To search into the sickness of thy mind,
But talk as wildly then as thou look'st now.
Jaff. O Belvidera!
Belv. Why was I last night
Delivered to a villain?