Aur. Thou perjur’d wretch! thou most abhorred villain!
Vor. Prate on, prate on: ’tis true, I merit this.
But go not yet too far, lest, stripling boy,
You should, to indignation, fire my blood,
Which thou hast turn’d from out its wonted course,
And make it fall on thee.
Aur. Alike, I do defy thy rage and threat.
Where is my father?
Vor. Curse upon thee, thou grat’st my soul!
O! if around this tatter’d conscience, e’er