Opas. And doubtest thou his truth?
Sis. I love—and doubt—
Fight—and believe: Roderigo spoke untruths,
In him I place no trust; but Julian holds
Truths in reserve—how should I quite confide!
Opas. By sorrows thou beholdest him opprest;
Doubt the more prosperous: march, Sisabert,
Once more against his enemy and ours;
Much hath been done, but much there still remains.
ACT IV. SCENE II.
Tent of Julian.
Roderigo and Julian.
Jul. To stop perhaps at any wickedness
Appears a merit now, and at the time
Prudence or policy it often is
Which afterward seems magnanimity.
The people had deserted thee, and thronged
My standard, had I rais’d it, at the first;
But once subsiding, and no voice of mine
Calling by name each grievance to each man,
They, silent and submissive by degrees,
Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but opprest,
Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived;
Thou hast done all a foren foe could do,
And more, against them; with ingratitude
Not hell itself could arm the foren foe—
’Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar.
Amid whate’er vain glories fell upon
Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve,
Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank,
How thou preservedst me, my family,
All my distinctions, all my offices,
When Witiza was murder’d, that I stand
Count Julian at this hour by special grace.
The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta,
And not the shadow that attends his name
It was no badge, no title, that o’erthrew
Soldier, and steed, and engine—don Roderigo,
The truly and the falsely great here differ,
These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance,
Him the Almighty calls amidst his people
To sway the wills and passions of mankind.
The weak of heart and intellect beheld
Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain—
I rose—Roderigo lords o’er Spain no more.
Rod. Now to a traitor’s add a boaster’s name.
Jul. Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe
I boast for pride or pastime? forced to boast,
Truth costs me more than falsehood e’er cost thee.
Divested of that purple of the soul,
That potency, that palm of wise ambition—
Cast headlong by thy madness from that high
That only eminence ’twixt earth and heaven,
Virtue—which some desert, but none despise—
Whether thou art beheld again on earth,
Whether a captive or a fugitive;
Miner or galley-slave, depends on me:
But he alone who made me what I am
Can make me greater, or can make me less.
Rod. Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power,
Give me my sword again and try my strength.