Off. A troop of tailors by force have ta'en
Antonio from us, and have borne him (spite
Of the best resistance we could make) unto some
Secret place; we cannot find him.
Mach. Screech-owl, dost know what thou hast said?
Death! find him, or you die! O my cross stars!
He must not live to torture our vex'd sense,
But die; though he'd no fault but innocence.
[Exit.
Enter Giovanno, Antonio, and the Old Tailor.
Gio. Can this kindness merit your love?
Do I deserve your sister?
Ant. My sister! worthy tailor, 'tis a gift lies not in me to give: ask something else, 'tis thine, although it be gained with the quite extinguishing of this—this breath you gave me.
Gio. Have not I——
Ant. Speak no further; I confess you have been all unto me, life and being; I breathe but with your licence: will no price buy out your interest in me but her love? I tell thee, tailor, I have blood runs in me, Spain cannot match for greatness next her kings. Yet, to requite thy love, I'll call thee friend; be thou Antonio's friend—a favour nobles have thirsted for: will this requite thee?
Gio. Sir, this may, but——
Ant. My sister, thou wouldst say, most worthy tailor; she's not mine to give; honour spake in my dying father: 'tis a sentence that's registered here in Antonio's heart—I must not wed her but to one in blood calls honour father. Prythee, be my friend; forget I have a sister; in love I'll be more than a brother, though not to mingle blood.