ALC.No, no, it is not; your base insults have ordained it otherwise.That passionate and tender love does not exist any longer; you have cruelly killed it in my heart by a hundred keen wounds.In its place stands an inflexible wrath, a lively resentment, an invincible indignation, the despair of a heart justly incensed, which resolves to hate you for this grievous injury, as much as it was willing to love you; that is to say to hate as much as possible.
JUP.Alas! Your love must have had but little strength, if it can be killed by so slight a matter! Can a jest divorce us? Is there any need to be so roused at a trifle?
ALC.Ah! It is just that which offends me: that which my anger cannot pardon.I should have felt less wounded by the justifiable transports of a fit of jealousy.Jealousy makes impressions the force of which oftentimes carries us beyond our control; at such times the most discreet mind, no doubt, finds it difficult enough to answer for its deeds.The violence of a heart which may have been deluded has, in its very delusion, a peace-offering for an aggrieved soul, and the love that gave birth to its fears, furnishes, in spite of all its violence, at least some reasons to urge as excuse.
Outbursts such as these ever have love as an excuse against anger:
for love gave birth to them, and we can easily pardon what we cannot control.
But to fly into uncontrollable fury, in gaiety of heart, and so causelessly and keenly to wound the tenderness and honour of a heart that dearly loves you, ah! It is too cruel a blow: my grief can never forget it.