Sweet Lydia, I beseech you spare me.
Lydia. No!
I will not spare you.--You have brought me to safety,
You whom I fear worse than that baleful foe.
[Rises to go.]
Wal. [Kneeling and snatching her hand.] Lydia!
Lydia. Now, make thy bounty perfect. Drop
My hand. That posture which dishonours thee,
Quit!--for 'tis shame on shame to show respect
Where we do feel disdain. Throw ope thy gate
And let me pass, and never seek with me,
By look, or speech, or aught, communion more!
Wal. Thou saidst thou lovedst me?
Lydia. Yes! when I believed
My tongue did take of thee its last adieu,
And now that I do know it--for be sure
It never bids adieu to thee again -
Again, I tell it thee! Release me, sir!
Rise!--and no hindrance to my will oppose.
That would be free to go.
Wal. I cannot lose thee!
Lydia. Thou canst not have me!
Wal. No!
Lydia. Thou canst not. I
Repeat it.--Yet I'm thine--thine every way,
Except where honour fences!--Honour, sir,
Not property of gentle blood alone;
Of gentle blood not always property!
Thou'lt not obey me. Still enforcest me!
Oh, what a contradiction is a man!
What in another he one moment spurns,
The next--he does himself complacently!
Wal. Wouldst have me lose the hand that holds my life?
Lydia.
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