Before my love; oh, cruel tyrant! yet gentle Montes still
For my mischance once seen—Love conquer will.
Celia. What honour, lady, hast thou chanced?
For when he sat thou turn'dst aside, and spake
But to Otavio.
Julia. I but to Otavio spake; oh, shame!
Oh heaven, rain salt tears! so Montes is his name.
Celia. Sweet lady, why so sad?
Julia. Sad, more than sad; oh shame!
For while I lip converse held,
And on Otavio smiled, how dare I tell,
My words were all Roselo's, and oh! he knew it well.
Celia. The freedom of the revel doth allow
Such speech, and yet no honour be in question.
Julia. I gave, oh shame! I gave a ring.
Celia. E'en that the freedom of the dance permits.
Julia. Worse, I did concert to meet this youth
To-morrow night, beneath the shadow of the trees
Which in the orchard grow.
Celia. Stay thou within, and meet him not.
Julia. Oh! I cannot, Celia, for I love him so.
Celia. Forget him, lady, for thy father would
Wed thee much rather to a tawny Moor
Than one of Montes' kin.
Julia. Had I but known him Montes, how discreet
I would have been; so wrong, so bold,
Unmaidenly; and yet if he should come again
His witching voice would vanquish each resolve.
To-morrow, Celia, go thou and seek him early,
And say from me, I have been thoughtless,
Wild, unmaidenly; and say, and say,
I pray him not to pass this way.
