Take this poignard, plunge it in my heart,
And with my blood so end this hated strife.
Thou speakest not!
Marin. Sweet Celia, should hot anger move thy heart
That I, faint-hearted, kept aloof from strife,
And mounting to the tower's topmost height,
Did shout, I but a peaceful friar am, and so
Did bring some scandal on the Church below,
In double-quilted doublet here I stand,
And here's my dagger ready to your hand;
Kill me, and then to prison go! Thou'rt silent, sweet.
Julia. She who abandons all things for thy love,
How mourn a cousin while a husband lives?
I care not if the blood of all our house be shed!
I know no father, kindred, home—to me they're dead;
All, save one in whom my soul all worship knows.
Thou art my kindred—no Castelvin daughter I!
Once I bore that name, but now I Montes am
In hope, in thought, in soul and name!
Celia. Most sweet Marin, for thee I now forget
I ever had a kindred, house, or name.
What care I if our linen washes white or no,
Or see the glass which holds our honied sweets
Be cracked or no? Why should I wish Marin
Were bold and valiant, risking precious life
In foolish broils? for fighting thou might'st
E'en meet death, and I a weeping widow be.
I'd have my lover to be this: in will
A game old fowl, wary, tough to kill.
The coward should most careful counsel know;
The brave and reckless can in useless broils show,
Keeping stern, wrinkled Justice all agog,
I
