Prompture

I'll to my brother: Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. That had he twenty heads to tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up, Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution.

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, Has not Love's whisper evermore Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?