Were he more lowly at my feet to sue
Than e'er he did!

Wal. Wed whom?

Julia. Sir Thomas Clifford.

Wal. You're right.

Julia. His rank and wealth are roots to doubt;
And while they lasted, still the weed would grow,
Howe'er you plucked it. No! That's o'er--that's done.
Was never lady wronged so foul as I! [Weeps.]

Wal. Thou'rt to be pitied.

Julia. [Aroused.] Pitied! Not so bad
As that.

Wal. Indeed thou art, to love the man
That spurns thee!

Julia. Love him! Love! If hate could find
A word more harsh than its own name, I'd take it,
To speak the love I bear him! [Weeps.]

Wal. Write thy own name,
And show him how near akin thy hate's to hate.

Julia. [Writes.] 'Tis done!