University of Virginia Library

SCENE XI.

To them, Durazzo.
DURAZZO.
How's this? my daughter kneeling, and in tears!
And anger glowing on the cheek of Fulvia!
Rise, Julia, rise.—Madam, that stern regard—

JULIA.
O, sir, you must not pity, nor approach me;
I dare not trust to nature or affection:
Your breast perhaps may turn to marble too.
Source of my life! dear even as thee, my father,
Your Julia lov'd her:—See these bitter tears;
With agonies like these am I requited.

DURAZZO.
A fury's brand must sure have fear'd the breast,
That could give thee a pang, my joy! my comfort!—
What have you done?

[to Fulvia.
FULVIA.
Do you behold this picture?
Claudio my son, the day the assassin stabb'd him,
Wore this detested bawble next his heart.
Mentevole, that weeping lady's lover,
This morning dropp'd it. Ask you, how he had it,
Let that light woman, and her minion, answer.

DURAZZO.
And is that scornful finger for my daughter?
Injurious as thou art—

JULIA.
For pity, hold!
I have enough of misery already,
Revil'd, upbraided, charg'd with monstrous guilt;
She knew not what she said,—indeed I hope so;
But let me here fall lifeless at her feet,
My heaving heart burst with its throbs before her,
Rather than hear your tongue cast back reproach,
To violate the reverence I still owe her.

DURAZZO.
Hear'st thou, inhuman?

FULVIA.
Yes, with scorn I hear her;
That syren's voice has lost the power to charm.
Why stay I here to breathe the infectious air?
May curses rest on these devoted walls,
Till livid lightning to the centre shake them!
[Exit Fulvia.