too much love.
Had I, for jealousy of empire, sought
Good Sancho's death, Sancho had died before.
'Twas always in my power to take his life;
But interest never could my conscience blind,
Till love had cast a mist before my eyes,
And made me think his death the only means
Which could secure my throne to Torrismond.

_Tor._ Never was fatal mischief meant so kind,
For all she gave has taken all away.
Malicious powers! is this to be restored?
'Tis to be worse deposed than Sancho was.

_Raym._ Heaven has restored you, you depose yourself.
Oh, when young kings begin with scorn of justice,
They make an omen to their after reign,
And blot their annals in the foremost page.

_Tor._ No more; lest you be made the first example,
To show how I can punish.

_Raym._ Once again:
Let her be made your father's sacrifice,
And after make me hers.

_Tor._ Condemn a wife!
That were to atone for parricide with murder.

_Raym._ Then let her be divorced: we'll be content
With that poor scanty justice; let her part.

_Tor._ Divorce! that's worse than death, 'tis death of love.

_Leo._ The soul and body part not with such pain,
As I from you; but yet 'tis just, my lord:
I am the accurst of heaven, the hate of earth,
Your subjects' detestation, and your ruin;
And therefore fix this doom upon myself.

_Tor._ Heaven! Can you wish it, to be mine no more?

_Leo._ Yes, I can wish it, as the dearest proof,
And last, that I can make you of my love.
To leave you blest, I would be more accurst
Than death can make me; for death ends our woes,
And the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene:
But I would live without you, to be wretched long;
And hoard up every moment of my life,
To lengthen out the payment of my tears,
Till even fierce Raymond, at the last, shall say,--
Now let her die, for she has grieved enough.

_Tor._ Hear this, hear this, thou tribune of the people!
Thou zealous, public blood-hound, hear, and melt!

_Raym._ [_Aside._]
I could cry now; my eyes grow womanish,
But yet my heart holds out.

_Leo._ Some solitary cloister will I chuse,
And there with holy virgins live immured:
Coarse my attire, and short shall be my sleep,
Broke by the melancholy midnight bell.
Now, Raymond, now be satisfied at last:
Fasting and tears, and penitence and prayer,
Shall do dead Sancho justice every hour.

_Raym._ [_Aside._] By your leave, manhood! [_Wipes his eyes._

_Tor._ He weeps! now he is vanquished.

_Raym._ No: 't