SAVELLA: 
Is it so? 100
Is it true, Lady, that thy father did
Such outrages as to awaken in thee
Unfilial hate?

BEATRICE: 
Not hate, ’twas more than hate: 
This is most true, yet wherefore question me?

SAVELLA: 
There is a deed demanding question done; 105
Thou hast a secret which will answer not.

BEATRICE: 
What sayest?  My Lord, your words are bold and rash.

SAVELLA: 
I do arrest all present in the name
Of the Pope’s Holiness.  You must to Rome.

LUCRETIA: 
O, not to Rome!  Indeed we are not guilty. 110

BEATRICE: 
Guilty!  Who dares talk of guilt?  My Lord,
I am more innocent of parricide
Than is a child born fatherless...Dear mother,
Your gentleness and patience are no shield
For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, 115
Which seems, but is not.  What! will human laws,
Rather will ye who are their ministers,
Bar all access to retribution first,
And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do
What ye neglect, arming familiar things 120
To the redress of an unwonted crime,
Make ye the victims who demanded it
Culprits?  ’Tis ye are culprits!  That poor wretch
Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed,
If it be true he murdered Cenci, was 125
A sword in the right hand of justest God. 
Wherefore should I have wielded it?  Unless
The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name
God therefore scruples to avenge.

SAVELLA: 
You own
That you desired his death?

BEATRICE: 
It would have been 130
A crime no less than his, if for one moment
That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 
’Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray,
Ay, I even knew...for God is wise and just,
That some strange sudden death hung over him. 135
’Tis true that this did happen, and most true
There was no other rest for me on earth,
No other hope in Heaven...now what of this?

SAVELLA: 
Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both: 
I judge thee not.

BEATRICE: 
And yet, if you arrest me, 140
You are the judge and executioner
Of that which is the life of life:  the breath
Of accusation kills an innocent name,
And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life
Which is a mask without it.  ’Tis most false 145
That I am guilty of foul parricide;
Although I must rejoice, for justest cause,
That other hands have sent my father’s soul
To ask the mercy he denied to me. 
Now leave us free; stain not a noble house 150
With vague surmises of rejected crime;
Add to our sufferings and your own neglect
No heavier sum:  let them have been enough: 
Leave us the wreck we have.