In truth he cannot love as I do love!
Ambition guides thy greedy father's choice,
And truth and honour only second stand:
He'd have thee wed where his ambition points;
He hates the man who in fair variance slew
Otavio. Paris now call'd, doth journey with high hope;
He was despised, but now revenge may grow,
For, not like me, though noble be his blood,
He feels no rushing torrent of love's flood.
And thou wilt be his wife—my wedded wife!
Can I speak thus, and still hold pulse of life?
Marin. What need to shout so loud, good master mine?
Prudence demands you silence keep.
Roselo. Silence! and why keep silence, knave, I pray?
When the moon hath horns, then madmen have their say!
Marin. If, then, thy madness be confess'd, shout on.
Roselo. Oh, Julia! hadst thou been banish'd too,
The world had then esteem'd thee none the less,
For titles are but merchandize, and scutcheons paint.
On mine escutcheon no golden coronet doth blaze,
And yet Italia's early kings did give me breath:
Bright hope remains I know thou wilt repent.
Thou hast no pride in empty blazoned names
But that alone which doth the purest soul uphold.
What value scutcheons in the light of day?
Let night's black darkness round the scutcheons play.
Wedded to Paris, most perfidious maid,
Heaven shall curse, I only dare upbraid;
For he may hate to-day
Who yester even did most madly love!
Why thus so generous with thy love? Oh, say—
Why give a cause to curse our wedding-day,
