_Julia._ Please you, sir, Suspend a while this fatal ceremony,-- For therein lies my grief,--and I will on. _King._ Pause ye a while.--Young man, proceed. _Julia._ Now, Heaven! Make firm my woman's heart! [_Aside._]--Most royal sir! Although the cause of this my suit doth wound My private bosom, yet it doth involve, And couple with me, a right noble sharer.-- 'Tis you, great sir, you are yourself abused; My countrymen do palter with thee, King:---- You did require Six of our citizens, first in repute, And best consider'd of our town, as victims Of your high-throned anger. Here is one [_Pointing to RIBAUMONT._ I single out, and challenge to the proof;-- Let him stand forth;--and here I do avouch He is no member of our city: He does usurp another's right; defeats Your mighty purpose: and your rage, which thirsted For a rich draught of vengeance, must be served With the mere dregs of our community. _Ribau._ [_Advances._] Shame! I shall burst!--the dregs!---- _King._ Thou self-will'd fool, Who would run headlong into death, what art thou? _Ribau._ A man:--let that content you, sir!--'Tis blood You crave,--and with an appetite so keen, 'Tis strange to find you nice about its quality. But for this slave, Who thus has dared belie me, did not circumstance Rein in my wish--(O grant me patience, Heaven! The dregs!)--now, by my soul! I'd crush the reptile Beneath my feet; now, while his poisonous tongue Is darting forth its venom'd slander on me. _King._ I will be satisfied in this. Speak, fellow? Say, what is thy condition? _Ribau._ Truly, sir, 'Tis waste of royal breath to make this stir, For one, whom some few minutes hence your sentence Must sink to nothing. Henceforth I am dumb To all interrogation. _King._ Now, by our diadem!--but answer you. What is his state?--Say, of whose wreched place Is he the bold usurper? _Julia._ Sir, of mine. He does despoil me of my title; comes Bedeck'd in my just dues; which, as a citizen, (A young one though I be,) I here lay claim to. I am your victim, sir; dismiss this man, Who, haply, comes, in pity to my youth, And plucks the glory from me, which this ceremony Would grace my name withal, and let me die. _O'Carrol._ Die!--Och, the devil! did I come to the camp for this?--Madam, dear, dear madam!-- [_Aside._ _King._ The glory!--Why, by Heaven! these headstrong French Toy with our punishments! For thee, rash stripling! who dost brave our vengeance, Prepare to meet it. Yoke thee with this knave, Whose insolence hath roused our spleen, and, straight, You both shall suffer for't together.