this creature as a maid, I can create the rest: virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't. Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose. That you are well restored, my lord, I'm glad: Let the rest go. My honour's at the stake; which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift; That dost in vile misprision shackle up My love and her desert; that canst not dream, We, poising us in her defective scale, Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know, It is in us to plant thine honour where We please to have it grow. Cheque thy contempt: Obey our will, which travails in thy good: Believe not thy disdain, but presently Do thine own fortunes that obedient right Which both thy duty owes and our power claims; Or I will throw thee from my care for ever Into the staggers and the careless lapse Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit My fancy to your eyes: when I consider What great creation and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, Is as 'twere born so. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoise, if not to thy estate A balance more replete. I take her hand. Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform'd to-night: the solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her, Thy love's to me religious; else, does err. Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you. Your pleasure, sir? Your lord and master did well to make his recantation. Recantation! My lord! my master! Ay; is it not a language I speak? A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master! Are you companion to the Count Rousillon? To any count, to all counts, to what is man. To what is count's man: count's master is of another style. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee. What I dare too well do, I dare not do. I did think