Ce._ Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, _passion_ sways thee. _Fear_
does not _warm_ the blood, yet 't is a _passion_. Hast thou no feeling?
I have call'd thee liar! M'DONALD. If thou could'st make me one, I then
might grieve. BLAND. Thy coolness goes to freezing: thou'rt a coward.
M'DONALD. Thou knowest thou tell'st a falsehood. BLAND. Thou shalt know
None with impunity speaks thus of me. That to rouse thy courage.
[_Touches him gently, with his open hand, in crossing him. M'DONALD
looks at him unmoved._] Dost thou not yet feel? M'DONALD. For _thee_ I
feel. And tho' another's acts Cast no dishonour on the worthy man, I
still feel for thy father. Yet, remember, I may not, haply, ever be thus
guarded; I may not always the distinction make. However just, between
the blow intended To provoke, and one that's meant to injure. BLAND.
Hast thou no sense of honour? M'DONALD. Truly, yes: For I am honour's
votary. Honour, with me, Is worth: 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a
thing, So high pre-eminent,
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