_Julia_. What have my eyes to do with water? Fire Becomes them better! _Wal_. True! _Julia_. Yet, must I weep To be so monitored, and by a man! A man that was my slave! whom I have seen Kneel at my feet from morn till noon, content With leave to only gaze upon my face, And tell me what he read there,--till the page I knew by heart, I 'gan to doubt I knew, Emblazoned by the comment of his tongue! And he to lesson me! Let him come here On Monday week! He ne'er leads me to church! I would not profit by his rank, or wealth, Though kings might call him cousin, for their sake! I'll show him I have pride! _Wal_. You're very right! _Julia_. He would have had to-day our wedding-day! I fixed a month from this. He prayed and prayed; I dropped a week. He prayed and prayed the more! I dropped a second one. Still more he prayed! And I took off another week,--and now I have his leave to wed, or not to wed! He'll see that I have pride! _Wal_. And so he ought. _Julia_. O! for some way to bring him to my foot! But he should lie there! Why, 'twill go abroad That he has cast me off. That there should live The man could say so! Or that I should live To be the leavings of a man! _Wal_. Thy case I own a hard one! _Julia_. Hard? 'Twill drive me mad! His wealth and title! I refused a lord-- I did!--that privily implored my hand, And never cared to tell him on't! So much I hate him now, that lord should not in vain Implore my hand again! _Wal_. You'd give it him? _Julia_. I would. _Wal_. You'd wed that lord? _Julia_. That lord I'd wed;-- Or any other lord,--only to show him That I could wed above him! _Wal_. Give me your hand And word to that. _Julia_. There! Take my hand and word! _Wal_. That lord hath offered you his hand again. _Julia_. He has? _Wal_. Your father knows it: he approves of him. There are the title-deeds of the estates, Sent for my jealous scrutiny. All sound,-- No flaw, or speck, that e'en the lynx-eyed law Itself could find. A lord of many lands! In Berkshire half a county; and the same In Wiltshire, and in Lancashire! Across The Irish Sea a principality! And not a rood with bond or lien on it! Wilt give that lord a wife? Wilt make thyself A countess? Here's the proffer of his hand. Write thou content, and wear a coronet! _Julia_. [Eagerly.] Give me the paper. _Wal_. There! Here's pen and ink. Sit down. Why do you pause? A flourish of The pen, and you're a countess. _Julia_. My poor brain Whirls round and round! I would not wed him now, Were he more lowly at my feet to sue Than e'er he did! _Wal_. Wed whom? _Julia_. Sir Thomas Clifford. _Wal_. You're right. _Julia_. His rank and wealth are roots to doubt; And while they lasted, still the weed would grow, Howe'er you plucked it. No! That's o'er--that's done. Was never lady wronged so foul as I! [Weeps.] _Wal_. Thou'rt to be pitied. _Julia_. [Aroused.] Pitied! Not so bad As that.