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But honour, god-like honour, fires my soul,
And will not be restrain'd. Read, read Geraldi;
I spoke not without proof.
Sforza.
It is the hand,
The seal of Veronica. (Reads the letter.)
Angelo. (aside)
Ha! it works:
The subtle poison steals through all his veins,
And with his life-blood mingles. How his eyes
Drink up the fatal scroll. Paralyzed
And mute he stands. Where is the hero now,
Who boldly fronted groves of hostile spears?
Stabbed to the heart by a few foolish words.
Why this is luxury my panting soul
Never imagin'd: let me veil my joy;
If I betray my triumph, I shall mar
My well-constructed plot.
