Ozias.  In thee, too, are the floods, the wild rivers, Overrunning thy thought, the nameless mind?  How else, indeed?  Nay, we are dull with joy:  Of thee we thought not, out of the hands of outrage Coming back, although with victory coming.  But this makes surety once more of my thought, And gives again my reason its lost station; For it may come now in my privilege (A thing that could cure madness in my brain) That thou from me persuasion hast to endure What well I know thy soul, thy upright soul, Feels as abominable harness on it Fastening thee unwillingly to crime,—­ The wickedness that hath delighted in thee.

Judith.  Ay?  Art thou there already?  Tasting, art thou, What the Assyrians may have forced on me, Ere thou hast well swallowed thy new freedom?  Indeed, I know this is the wine of the feast Which I have set for thee and thy Bethulia; And ’tis the wine makes delicate the banquet.

Ozias.  Wait:  listen to me.  ’Tis I now must be wise And thou the hearkener.  Not without wound (So I make out, at least, thy hurrying words) Comest thou back to us from conquering.  And such a wound, I easily believe, As eats into thy soul and rages there; Yea, I that know thee, Judith, know thy soul Worse rankling hath in it from heathen insult Than flesh could take from steel bathed in a venom Art magic brewed over a charcoal fire,
Blown into flame by hissing of whipt lizards. 
Yet is it likely, by too much regarding,
Thy hurt is pamper’d in its poisonous sting. 
Wounds in the spirit need no surgery
But a mind strong not to insist on them. 
See, then, thou hast not too much horror of this;
Who that fights well in battle comes home sound?—­
Much less couldst thou, who must, with seeming weakness,
Invite the power of Holofernes forth
Ere striking it, thy womanhood the ambush. 
For thou didst plan, I guess, to duel him
In snares, weaving his greed about his limbs,
Drawn out and twisted winding round his strength
By ministry of thy enticing beauty;
That when he thought himself spending on thee
Malicious violence, and thou hadst made him
Languish, stupid with boasting and delight,
Thy hands might find him a tied quiet victim
Under their anger, maiming him of life.  Now, thy device accomplisht, wilt thou grudge Its means?  Wilt thou scruple to understand Thy abus’d sex will show upon thy fame A nobler colour of glory than a soldier’s Wounded bravery rusting his habergeon?  Nay, will not the world rejoice, thou being found Among its women, ready such insolence To bear as is unbearable to think on, Thereby to serve and save God and his people?

Judith.  The world rejoice over me?  Yea, I am certain.

Ozias. 
Then art thou too fastidious.  It is weak
To make thyself a shame of being injured;
And is it injury indeed?  Nay, is it
Anything but a mere opinion hurt? 
Not thou, but customary thought is here
Molested and annoyed; the only nerve
Can carry anguish from this to thy soul,
Is that credulity which ties the mind
Firmly to notional creature as to real. 
Advise thee, then; dark in thyself keep hid
This grief; and thou wilt shortly find it dying.