Dor. Even in the face of heaven, a place more sacred,
Would I have struck the man, who, prompt by power,
Would seize my right, and rob me of my love: 
But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice,
The hasty product of a just despair,
When he refused to meet me in the field,
That thou shouldst make a coward’s cause thy own!

Seb. He durst; nay more, desired, and begged with tears,
To meet thy challenge fairly:  ’Twas thy fault
To make it public; but my duty, then,
To interpose, on pain of my displeasure,
Betwixt your swords.

Dor. On pain of infamy, He should have disobeyed.

Seb. The indignity, thou didst, was meant to me: 
Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn,
As who should say,—­the blow was there intended: 
But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands
Against anointed power.  So was I forced
To do a sovereign justice to myself,
And spurn thee from my presence.

Dor. Thou hast dared
To tell me, what I durst not tell myself: 
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face. 
All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age! 
Has honour’s fountain then sucked back the stream? 
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.—­
Give me my love, my honour; give them back—­
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!

Seb. Now, by this honoured order which I wear,
More gladly would I give, than thou dar’st ask it;
Nor shall the sacred character of king
Be urged, to shield me from thy bold appeal. 
If I have injured thee, that makes us equal;
The wrong, if done, debased me down to thee. 
But thou hast charged me with ingratitude;
Hast thou not charged me? speak!

Dor. Thou know’st I have:  If thou disown’st that imputation, draw, And prove my charge a lie.

Seb. No; to disprove that lie, I must not draw. 
Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul,
What thou hast done this day in my defence. 
To fight thee after this, what were it else
Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest? 
That isthmus stands between two rushing seas;
Which, mounting, view each other from afar,
And strive in vain to meet.

Dor. I’ll cut that isthmus. 
Thou know’st I meant not to preserve thy life,
But to reprieve it, for my own revenge. 
I saved thee out of honourable malice: 
Now, draw;—­I should be loth to think thou dar’st not: 
Beware of such another vile excuse.

Seb. O patience, heaven!

Dor. Beware of patience, too;
That’s a suspicious word.  It had been proper,
Before thy foot had spurned me; now ’tis base: 
Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence,
I have thy oath for my security. 
The only boon I begged was this fair combat: 
Fight, or be perjured now; that’s all thy choice.