Jul.  If I possess him, I may be unhappy;
But if I lose him, I am surely so. 
Had you a friend so desperately sick,
That all physicians had forsook his cure;
All scorched without, and all parched up within,
The moisture that maintained consuming nature
Licked up, and in a fever fried away;
Could you behold him beg, with dying eyes,
A glass of water, and refuse it him,
Because you knew it ill for his disease? 
When he would die without it, how could you
Deny to make his death more easy to him?

Man.  Talk not to me of love, when honour suffers.  The boys will hiss at me.

Gons.  I suffer most: 
Had there been ’choice, what would I not have chose? 
To save my honour I my love must lose: 
But promises, once made, are past debate,
And truth’s of more necessity than fate.

Man.  I scarce can think your promise absolute; There might some way be thought on, if you would, To keep both her and it.

Gons.  No, no; my promise was no trick of state:  I meant to be made truly wretched first, And then to die; and I’ll perform them both.

Man.  Then that revenge, I meant on Rodorick, I’ll take on you. [Draws.

Gons.—­I draw with such regret, As merchants throw their wealth into the sea, To save their sinking vessels from a wreck.

Man.  I find I cannot lift my hand against thee: 
Do what thou wilt; but let not me behold it. [Goes off a little way. 
I’ll cut this gordian knot I cannot loose: 
To keep his promise, Rodorick shall have her,
But I’ll return and rescue her by force;
Then giving back what he so frankly gave,
At once my honour and his love I’ll save.
[Exit MANUEL.

Enter RODORICK.

Rod.  How!  Julia brought by him?—­Who sent for me?

Gons.  ’Twas I.

Rod.  I know your business then; ’tis fighting.

Gons.  You’re mistaken; ’tis something that I fear.

Rod.  What is’t?

Gons.  Why,—­’twill not out:  Here, take her;
And deserve her:  but no thanks;
For fear I should consider what I give,
And call it back.—­

Jul.  O my dear Rodorick!

Gons.  O cruel Julia! 
For pity shew not all your joy before me;
Stifle some part of it one minute longer,
’Till I am dead.

Jul.  My Rodorick shall know, He owes his Julia to you; thank him, love; In faith I take it ill you are so slow.

Rod.  You know he has forbid me; and, beside, He’ll take it better from your mouth than mine; All that you do must needs be pleasing to him.

Jul.  Still sullen and unkind!

Rod.  Why, then, in short, I do not understand the benefit.

Gons.  Not to have Julia in thy free possession?