Act IV - Page 2

I declare,
That, had I power, I would renew the war.
I'm forced to stoop, and 'twere too great a blow
To bend my pride, and to deny me too.

Gons: You have my heart; dispose it to your will;
If not, you know the way to use it ill.

Jul: Cruel to me, though kind to your desert,
My brother gives my person, not my heart;
And I have left no other means to sue,
But to you only, to be freed from you.

Gons: From such a suit how can you hope success,
Which, given, destroys the giver's happiness?

Jul: You think it equal you should not resign
That power you have, yet will not leave me mine;
Yet on my will I have the power alone,
And, since you cannot move it, move your own.
Your worth and virtue my esteem may win,
But women's passions from themselves begin;
Merit may be, but force still is, in vain.

Gons: I would but love you, not your love constrain;
And though your brother left me to command,
He placed his thunder in a gentle hand.

Jul: Your favour from constraint has set me free,
But that secures not my felicity;
Slaves, who, before, did cruel masters serve,
May fly to deserts, and in freedom starve.
The noblest part of liberty they lose,
Who can but shun, and want the power to chuse.

Gons: O whither would your fatal reasons move!
You court my kindness, to destroy my love.

Jul: You have the power to make my happiness,
By giving that, which you can ne'er possess.

Gons: Give you to Roderick? there wanted yet
That curse, to make my miseries complete.

Jul: Departing misers bear a nobler mind;
They, when they can enjoy no more, are kind;
You, when your love is dying in despair,
Yet want the charity to make an heir.

Gons: Though hope be dying, yet it is not dead;
And dying people with small food are fed.

Jul: The greatest kindness dying friends can have,
Is to dispatch them, when we cannot save.

Gons: Those dying people, could they speak' at all,
That pity of their friends would murder call:
For men with horror dissolution meet;
The minutes even of painful life are sweet.

Jul: But I'm by powerful inclination led;
And streams turn seldom to their fountain head.

Gons: No; 'tis a tide which carries you away;
And tides may turn, though they can never stay.

Jul: Can you pretend to love, and see my grief
Caused by yourself, yet give me no relief?

Gons: Where's my reward?

Jul: The honour of the flame.

Gons: I lose the substance, then, to gain the name.

Jul: I do too much mistress' power betray;
Must slaves be won by courtship to obey?
Thy disobedience does to treason rise,
Which thou, like rebels, would'st with love disguise.
I'll kill