Bel. Sister?—No! Thou art no brother...

Bel. Sister?—No!

Thou art no brother, but an enemy;

Else wouldst thou not have us'd thy sister so:

First, to affright me with thy weapons drawn,

And with extremes abuse my company;

And then to harry me, like whirlwind's rage,

Amidst a crew of thy confederates,

And clap me up, where none might come at me,

Nor I at any, to reveal my wrongs.

What madding fury did possess thy wits?

Or wherein is't that I offended thee?

Lor. Advise you better, Bel-Imperia,

For I have done you no disparagement;

Unless, by more discretion than deserv'd,

I sought to save your honour and mine own.

Bel. Mine honour? why, Lorenzo, wherein is't

That I neglect my reputation so,

As you, or any, need to rescue it?

Lor. His highness and my father were resolved

To come confer with old Hieronimo,

Concerning certain matters of estate,

That by the viceroy was determined.

Bel. And wherein was mine honour touch'd in that?

Bal. Have patience, Bel-Imperia; hear the rest

Lor. Me (next in sight) as messenger they sent,

To give him notice that they were so nigh:

Now when I came, consorted with the prince,

And unexpected, in an arbour there,

Found Bel-Imperia with Horatio—

Bel. How then?

Lor. Why, then, remembering that old disgrace,

Which you for Don Andrea had endur'd,

And now were likely longer to sustain,

By being found so meanly accompanied,

Thought rather—for I knew no readier mean—

To thrust Horatio forth my father's way.

Bal. And carry yon obscurely somewhere else,

Lest that his highness should have found you there.

Bel. Ev'n so, my lord? And you are witness

That this is true which he entreateth of?

You, gentle brother, forg'd this for my sake,

And you, my lord, were made his instrument?

A work of worth, worthy the noting too!

But what's the cause that you conccal'd me since?

Lor. Your melancholy, sister, since the news

Of your first favourite Don Andrea's death,

My father's old wrath hath exasperate.

Bal. And. better was't for you, being in disgrace,

To absent yourself, and give his fury place.

Bel. But why had I no notice of his ire?

Lor. That were to add more fuel to your fire,

Who burnt like Ætna for Andrea's loss.

Bel. Hath not my father then enquired for me?

Lor. Sister, he hath, and thus excus'd I thee.

[He whispereth in her ear.

But, Bel-Imperia, see the gentle prince;

Look on thy love, behold young Balthazar,

Whose passions by thy presence are increased;

And in whose melancholy thou may'st see

Thy hate, his love; thy flight, his following thee.

Bel. Brother, you are become an orator—

I know not, I, by what experience—

Too politic for me, past all compare,

Since last I saw you; but content yourself:

The prince is meditating higher things.

Bal. 'Tis of thy beauty then that conquers kings;

Of those thy tresses, Ariadne's twines,

Wherewith, my liberty thou hast surpris'd;

Of that thine ivory front, my sorrow's map,

Wherein I see no hav'n to rest my hope.

Bel. To love and fear, and both at once, my lord,

In my conceit, are things of more import

Than women's wits are to be busied with.

Bal. 'Tis I that love.

Bel. Whom?

Bal. Bel-Imperia.

Bel. But I that fear.

Bal. Whom?

Bel. Bel-Imperia.

Lor. Fear yourself?

Bel. Ay, brother.

Lor. How?

Bel. As those

That, what they love, are loath and fear to lose.

Bal. Then, fair, let Balthazar your keeper be.

Bel. No, Balthazar doth fear as well as we:

_Et tremulo metui pavidum junxere timorem—

Est vanunt stolidae proditionis opus._

Lor. Nay, and you argue things so cunningly,

We'll go continue this discourse at court.

Bal. Led by the loadstar of her heavenly looks,

Wends poor, oppressed Balthazar,

As o'er the mountains walks the wanderer,

Incertain to effect his pilgrimage.

Thomas Kyd, The Spanish Tragedy. http://www.luminarium.org/renascence-editions/kyd1.html.

Full-texts of The Spanish Tragedy: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/6043/6043-h/6043-h.htm

http://www.luminarium.org/renascence-editions/kyd1.html