_Jul._ I tried it in the front of thousands.
_Rod._ Death At least vouchsafe me from a soldier’s hand.
_Jul._ I love to hear thee ask it—now my own Would not be bitter; no, nor immature.
_Jul._ Death itself Shall not be granted thee, unless from God; A dole from his and from no other hand. Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy—
_Rod._ Chains, dungeons, tortures—but I hear no more.
_Jul._ Silence, thou wretch, live on—aye, live—abhor’d. Thou shalt have tortures, dungeons, chains, enough— They naturally rise and grow around Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever.
_Rod._ Insulter of the fallen! must I endure Commands as well as threats? my vassal’s too? Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet?
_Jul._ Could I speak patiently who speak to thee, I would say more—part of thy punishment It should be, to be taught.
_Rod._ Reserve thy wisdom Until thy patience come, its best allie: I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee.
_Jul._ No, thou shalt study soon another tongue, And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind. Either the cross thou bearest, and thy knees Among the silent caves of Palestine Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer, Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary— Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well From sultry noon till the skies fade again, To draw up water and to bring it home In the crackt gourd of some vile testy knave, Who spurns thee back with bastinaded foot For ignorance or delay of his command.
_Rod._ Rather the poison or the bow-string.
_Jul._ Slaves To other’s passions die such deaths as those, Slaves to their own should die—
_Jul._ Not mine; I point a better path, nay, force thee on. I shelter thee from every brave man’s sword While I am near thee: I bestow on thee Life: if thou die, ’tis when thou sojournest Protected by this arm and voice no more; ’Tis slavishly, ’tis ignominiously, ’Tis by a villain’s knife.
_Rod._ O powers of vengeance! must I hear? endure? Live?
_Jul._ Call thy vassals? no! then wipe the drops Of froward childhood from thy shameless eyes. So! thou canst weep for passion—not for pity.
_Rod._ One hour ago I ruled all Spain! a camp Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone Against me: now, no friend throughout the world Follows my steps or hearkens to my call. Behold the turns of fortune, and expect No better; of all faithless men, the Moors Are the most faithless—from thy own experience Thou canst not value nor rely on them.