Bland.
Thou liest!
M'Donald.
Shame on thy ruffian tongue! how passion
Mars thee! I pity thee! Thou canst not harm,
By words intemperate, a virtuous man.
I pity thee! for passion sometimes sways
My older frame, through former uncheck'd habit:
But when I see the havoc which it makes
In others, I can shun the snare accurst,
And nothing feel but pity.
Bland [indignantly].
Pity me!
[Approaches him, and speaks in an under voice.
M'Donald.
If thou could'st make me one, I then might grieve.
Bland.