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For what has Monfort done of wrong to you, Or you to him, bating one foolish quarrel, Which you confess from slight occasion rose, That in your breasts such dark resentment dwells, So fix'd, so hopeless?

Rez. O! from our youth he has distinguish'd me With ev'ry mark of hatred and disgust. For e'en in boyish sports I still oppos'd His proud pretensions to pre-eminence; Nor would I to his ripen'd greatness give That fulsome adulation of applause A senseless croud bestow'd. Tho' poor in fortune, I still would smile at vain-assuming wealth: But when unlook'd-for fate on me bestow'd Riches and splendour equal to his own, Tho' I, in truth, despise such poor distinction, Feeling inclin'd to be at peace with him, And with all men beside, I curb'd my spirit, And sought to soothe him. Then, with spiteful rage, From small offence he rear'd a quarrel with me, And dar'd me to the field. The rest you know. In short, I still have been th' opposing rock. O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride Hath foam'd and bellow'd. See'st thou how it is?

Freb. Too well I see, and warn thee to beware. Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcharg’d, Borne down with sudden and impetuous force The yet unshaken stone of opposition,