Hel. My lord!
[Tyrant and Helvetius converse apart.
Tyr. Your reason, sir?
Hel. Your Grace is mild to all but your own bosom;
They should have both been sent to several prisons,
And not committed to each other's arms.
There's a hot durance: he'll ne'er wish more freedom.
Tyr. Tis true; let 'em be both forc'd back!
[To the Officers.
Stay, we command you.
Thou talk'st not like a statesman; had my wrath
Took hold of such extremity at first,
They'd liv'd suspectful still, warn'd by their fears,
When now, that liberty makes them more secure,
I'll take them at my pleasure; it gives thee
Freer access to play the father for us,
And ply her to our will.
Nay, more: to vex his soul, give command straight
They be divided into several rooms,
Where he may only have a sight of her
To his mind's torment, but his arms and lips
Lock'd up, like felons, from her.
Hel. Now you win me.
I like that cruelty passing well, my lord.
Tyr. Give order with all speed.
Hel. Though I be old,
I need no spur, my lord; honour pricks me.
I do beseech your majesty, look cheerful,
You shall not want content, if it be lock'd
In any blood of mine; the key's your own,
You shall command the wards.