D. of Eboli. You are not less to Henriet, I find.
Don John. Why, she's a beauty, tender, young, and fair.
D. of Eboli. I thought I might in charms have equalled her.
You told me once my beauty was not less.
Is this your faith? are these your promises?
Don John. You would seem jealous, but are crafty grown;
Tax me of falsehood to conceal your own.
Go, you're a woman—
D. of Eboli. Yes, I know I am:
And by my weakness do deserve that name,
When heart and honour I to you resigned.
Would I were not a woman, or less kind!
Don John. Think you your falsehood was not plainly seen,
When to your charge my brother gave the queen?
Too well I saw it; how did you dispense,
In looks, your pity to the afflicted prince!
Whilst I my duty paid the king, your time
You watched, and fixed your melting eyes on him;
Admired him—
D. of Eboli. Yes, sir, for his constancy—
But 'twas with pain, to think you false to me,
When to another's eye you homage paid,
And my true love wronged and neglected laid;
Wronged, too, so far as nothing can restore.
Don John. Nay, then, let's part, and think of love no more.
Farewell! [Going.
D. of Eboli. Farewell, if you're resolved to go:—
Inhuman Austria, can you leave me so?
Enough my soul is by your falsehood racked;
Add not to your inconstancy neglect.
Methinks you so far might have grateful proved,
Not to have quite forgotten that I loved.
Don John. If e'er you loved, 'tis you, not I forget;
For a remove 'tis here too deeply set,
Firm-rooted, and for ever must remain. [She turns away.
Why thus unkind?