I hate you for your blood, I hate you because you have your mother's eyes, but much more do I hate you for yourself, for did you not beat me, a gentleman of Spain, with a stick as though I were a hound?
Shall I then shrink from such a deed when I can satisfy my hate by it?
Also perhaps, though you are a brave man, at this moment you know what it is to fear, and are tasting of its agony.

Now I will be open with you; Thomas Wingfield, I fear you.

When first I saw you I feared you as I had reason to do, and that is why I tried to kill you, and as time has gone by I have feared you more and more, so much indeed, that at times I cannot rest because of a nameless terror that dogs me and which has to do with you.

Because of you I fled from Spain, because of you I have played the coward in more frays than one.

The luck has always been mine in this duel between us, and yet I tell you that even as you are, I fear you still.