Her glory would I bend me prostrate down,
In reverence deep as thine, if she were not
The mistress of thy secret.

CARLOS.
See how vain,
How idle are thy fears! What proofs has she
That will not stamp her maiden brow with shame?
Say, will she purchase with her own dishonor
The wretched satisfaction of revenge?

MARQUIS.
Ay! to recall a blush, full many a one
Has doomed herself to infamy.

CARLOS (with increased vehemence).
Nay, that
Is far too harsh--and cruel! She is proud
And noble; well I know her, and fear nothing.
Vain are your efforts to alarm my hopes.
I must speak to my mother.

MARQUIS.
Now? for what?

CARLOS.
Because I've nothing more to care for now.
And I must know my fate. Only contrive
That I may speak with her.