Count Alarcos; a Tragedy by Earl of Beaconsfield Benjamin Disraeli
page 40 of 179 (22%)
page 40 of 179 (22%)
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Of Hungary's ire; but do not urge, Solisa,
Beyond capacity of sufferance My temper's proof. I:4:36 SOL. Alarcos is my husband, Or shall the sceptre from our line depart. Listen, ye saints of Spain, I'll have his hand, Or by our faith, my fated womb shall be As barren as thy love, proud King. I:4:37 KING. Thou'rt mad! Thou'rt mad! I:4:38 SOL. Is he not mine? Thy very hand, Did it not consecrate our vows? What claim So sacred as my own? I:4:39 KING. He did conspire -- I:4:40 SOL. 'Tis false, thou know'st 'tis false: against themselves Men do not plot: I would as soon believe My hand could hatch a treason 'gainst my sight, As that Alarcos would conspire to seize A diadem I would myself have placed Upon his brow. |
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