And. Nay, sweet love, cease;
To be denied our honour: why, ’twere base
To breathe and live; and war[307] in such a case
Is even as necessary as our blood.
Swords are in season then when right’s withstood:
Deny us tribute, that so many years
We have in peace told out? why, it would raise
Spleen in the host of angels! ’twere enough
To make our tranquil saints of angry stuff.
Bel. You have o’erwrought the chiding of my breast;