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Leon.

Dost thou look up?

Friar.

Yea, wherefore should she not?

Leon.

Wherefore? why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood?

Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes;

For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,

Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame?

O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,

Who smirched thus and mir’d with infamy,

I might have said, “No part of it is mine;

This shame derives itself from unknown loins”?

But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d,

And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

That I myself was to myself not mine,

Valuing of her—why, she, O she is fall’n

Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,