Tresham monologue (Act 2) — A Blot in the 'Scutcheon

And what will now Become of me? I'll hide your shame and mine From every eye; the dead must heave their hearts Under the marble of our chapel-floor; They cannot rise and blast you. You may wed Your paramour above our mother's tomb; Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. We too will somehow wear this one day out: But with to-morrow hastens here--the Earl! The youth without suspicion. Face can come From Heaven and heart from... whence proceed such hearts? I have dispatched last night at your command A missive bidding him present himself To-morrow--here--thus much is said; the rest Is understood as if 'twere written down-- "His suit finds favor in your eyes." Now dictate This morning's letter that shall countermand Last night's--do dictate that!