Hip. My Grief’s too great to be diverted this way. [Pointing to _Antonio_. Why should this Villain sleep, this treacherous Man— Who has for ever robb’d me of my rest? Had I but kept my Innocence intire, I had out-brav’d my Fate, and broke my Chains, Which now I bear like a poor guilty Slave, Who sadly crys, If I were free from these, I am not from my Crimes; so still lives on, 274 And drags his loathed Fetters after him. Why should I fear to die, or murder him? It is but adding one Sin more to th’ number. This—would soon do’t—but where’s the Hand to guide it? [Draws a Dagger, sighs. For ’tis an act too horrid for a Woman. [Turns away. But yet thus sleeping I might take that Soul, [Turns to him. Which waking all the Charms of Art and Nature Had not the Power t’effect. Oh were I brave, I could remember that, And this way be the Mistress of his Heart. But mine forbids it should be that way won; No, I must still love on, in spite of me, And wake him quickly, lest one Moment’s thought Upon my Shame should urge me to undo him. _Antonio_, _Antonio_. [He wakes, rises, and looks amazedly to see the Dagger in her Hand. Ant. Vile Woman, why that Dagger in that Hand? Hip. To’ve kill’d thee with, But that my Love o’ercame my juster Passion, And put it in thy Power to save thy self; Thank that, and not my Reason for thy Life. Ant. She’s doubly arm’d, with that and Injury, And I am wounded and defenceless. [Aside. _Hippolyta_, why all this Rage to me? [Kindly smiles. Hip. _Antonio_, thou art perjur’d, false and base. [In great Rage. Ant. What said my fairest Mistress? [Goes to her looking softly. Hip. I said that thou wert perjur’d, false and base. [Less in Rage. Ant. My dear _Hippolyta_, speak it again, I do not understand thee, [Takes her by the Hand. Hip. I said that thou wert perjur’d, my _Antonio_. [Sighs. Ant. Thou wert to blame, but ’twas thy Jealousy. Which being a Fault of Love I will excuse. 275 Give me that Mark of Anger, prithee do, It misbecomes thy Hand. Hip. I’ve nothing left but this I can command, And do not ravish this too. Ant. It is unkind thus to suspect my Love; Will you make no Allowance for my Humour? I am by Nature rough, and cannot please, With Eyes and Words all soft as others can, But I can love as truly my blunt way. Hip. You were so soft when first you conquer’d me. [Sighs. That but the Thoughts of that dear Face and Eyes, So manag’d, and so set for Conquest out, Would make me kind even to another Man; Could I but thus imbrace and hide my Eyes, And call him my _Antonio_. [She leans on his Bosom, he the while gets her Dagger. Ant. Stand off, false Woman, I despise thy Love, Of which to every Man I know thou deal’st An equal share.