usy
Live in a throng of such exalted virtues!
I scorn and hate, yet love him, and adore.
I cannot, will not, dare not, think it true,
'Till from himself I know it. [_exit._

_Zan._ This succeeds
Just to my wish. Now she, with violence,
Upbraids him; he, not doubting she is guilty,
Rages no less; and if on either side
The waves run high, there still lives hope of ruin.

_Re-enter Alonzo._

My lord--

_Alon._ Oh, Zanga, hold thy peace! I am no coward;
But heav'n itself did hold my hand; I felt it,
By the well-being of my soul, I did.
I'll think of vengeance at another season.

_Zan._ My lord, her guilt--

_Alon._ Perdition on thee, Moor,
For that one word! Ah, do not rouse that thought!
I have o'erwhelm'd it much as possible:
I tell thee, Moor, I love her to distraction.
If 'tis my shame, why, be it so--I love her;
I could not hurt her to be lord of earth;
It shocks my nature like a stroke from heav'n.
But see, my Leonora comes--Be gone. [_exit Zanga._

_Re-enter Leonora._

Oh, seen for ever, yet for ever new!
The conquer'd thou dost conquer o'er again,
Inflicting wound on wound.

_Leon._ Alas, my lord!
What need of this to me?

_Alon._ Ha! dost thou weep?

_Leon._ Have I no cause?

_Alon._ If love is thy concern,
Thou hast no cause: none ever lov'd like me.
Oh, that this one embrace would last for ever!

_Leon._ Could this man ever mean to wrong my virtue?
Could this man e'er design upon my life?
Impossible! I throw away the thought. [_aside._
These tears declare how much I taste the joy
Of being folded in your arms and heart;
My universe does lie within that space.
This dagger bore false witness.

_Alon._ Ha, my dagger!
It rouses horrid images. Away,
Away with it, and let us talk of love.

_Leon._ Of death!

_Alon._ As thou lov'st happiness--

_Leon._ Of murder!

_Alon._ Rash,
Rash woman! yet forbear.
Alas, thou quite mistak'st my cause of pain!
Yet, yet dismiss me; I am all in flames.

_Leon._ Who has most cause, you or myself? what act
Of my whole life encourag'd you to this?
Or of your own, what guilt has drawn it on you?
You find me kind, and think me kind to all;
The weak, ungen'rous error of your sex.
What could inspire the thought? We oft'nest judge
From our own hearts; and is yours then so frail,
It prompts you to conceive thus ill of me?
He that can stoop to harbour such a thought,
Deserves to find it true. [_holding him._

_Alon._ [_turning on