A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 12

ACT II., SCENE 1. Cle. And will you marry now? Erg. Indeed will I. Cle. And what shall Be done with all those locks of hair you have? Erg. Why, I'll make buttons of 'em, and had they half The value that I swore they had when I did beg 'em, Rich orient diamonds could not equal them: Some came eas'ly, and some I was forc'd to Dig for in th' mine. Cle. And your priz'd liberty— What shall become of that? You swore you would not marry till there were A law established that married men Might be redeem'd, as slaves are. Erg. I was an ass when I talk'd so: Those damned books of chastity I read In my minority corrupted me; but since I'm practis'd in the world, I find there are No greater libertines than married men. 'Tis true 'twas dangerous, this knot, in the First age, when it was a crime to break vows: But, thanks to Venus, the scene is alter'd, And we act other parts. I'll tell thee The privileges we enjoy when we are married. First, our secrecy is held authentic, which is Assurance will take up any woman At interest, that is not peevish; then th' acquaintance which our wives bring us, to whom at times I carry my wife's commendations; and if their husbands be not at home, I do commend myself. Cle. For what, I prythee? Erg. For a good dancer, a good rider, a good ----, anything that I think will please 'em. Cle. Thou'lt have a damnable conceit of thy wife, by thy knowledge and opinion of all other women, unless you think her a phœnix. Erg. 'Twill be my best resolution. But hark in thy ear, rogue: I could be content to think, and wish mine and all for the public good, and wear my horns with as much confidence, as the best velvet-head of 'em all, and paint them in my crest with this inscription These he deserved for his love to the commonwealth . Cle. A rare fame you would purchase! Erg. A more lasting one than any monument you can repeat the epitaph of; and would it not be glorious to be commemorated as the first founder of the commonalty of undisparaged cuckolds? Cle. Yes, and prayed for by bastards, that got better fathers than they were destined to by their mothers' marriages. Erg. And cursed by surgeons that were undone by honest women's practices. Cle. And this done voluntarily, which you will hardly avoid, though you have a thousand guards to prevent it. I, that have been your playfellow, shall be first suspected, and first banished. Erg. By Jupiter, never! No, though 'twould preserve a thousand smooth foreheads. If she be honest, your arts cannot alter her; and if otherwise, had I not rather adopt a son of thine than a stranger's? And confess truly, Cleon: would you not for this public benefit be content to sacrifice a sister, that we might love no longer by obligations, but affection; and seeing, liking, and enjoying, finished in a meeting. Cle. Unless I had means to appropriate one, you cannot suspect but I should wish a title unto all. But what hopes have you of your mistress? Erg. No airy ones of liking and affection; but mine are built on terra firma already, which her father looks on greedily, and proportions this to that grandchild, to the second this. Cle. Is he not somewhat startled at the report of thy debauchery? For though your thickset woods and spreading vineyards make excellent shades to keep away the sun—I mean the piercing eye of censure—yet some suspicions common fame will raise. Erg. Indeed it was my enemy, whilst my elder brother lived. Cle. But since his death you are altered. I must confess it, for then the slenderness of your annuity allowed you but the election of some one sin: I mean a cherished sin, whilst the others repined, that thought themselves of equal dignity; in time they had their turns, yet singly still: but since your brother's death you have shown yourself a grateful gentleman, and recompensed those that have suffered for you to the full. Erg. A pretty satire this, to whip boys of nine! Yet still I tell thee, I am another in the opinion of the world. Cle. Another Heliogabalus thou wouldst be, Hadst thou his power; but by what conjuration can You bring me to think it? Erg. By reason, which is a spirit will hardly be Rais'd in you; but thus it is. Whilst my brother Liv'd, my wildness was observed by—— Cle. But now you walk in shades, recluse, and shut Up in your coach; your painted liveries Supposed fairies, and she that you were wont to Visit by the name of Madam Ruffiana is now Your aunt. All this I am perfect in, yet cannot Reach the mystery of your suppos'd disguise You say doth mask you. Erg. Hear me, and be converted. I say I was Observed by those that were nearest in blood to me; And with fear, too, lest the ruin of my Fortune might force them to supply my wants. This caus'd the ague, this the admonitions and Frequent counsels—sometimes severe reproofs, Every one curling himself from any hopes of mine, That would assist me; and those gave largest counsels, That would give nothing else. Cle. Of this I am yet a sad party and a witness too. Erg. Since my brother's death, the names of things Are changed; my riots are the bounties of my nature, Carelessness the freedom of my soul: My prodigality, an easiness of mind proportion'd To my fortune. Believe me, Cleon, this poverty Is that which puts a multiplying-glass upon our Faults, and makes 'em swell, and fill the eye; Our crimes cry highest then when they have brought us low. Cle. I have not known any condemn'd for playing, But for losing. Erg. True; and let it be thy rule for all things else. Cle. If this be certain, 'twill be long ere I be reputed virtuous. Erg. Thou'lt never be, unless it be this way, I prophesy, good Cleon—— Cle. 'Tis a sad story; pray let us leave it. Have you no rivals? Erg. None present that I can fear, having her Father's firm consent. Cle. Eugenio, your rival, still continues banish'd. Erg. And I hope will, till I am full possess'd of Hermione. Cle. Did you give him cause to draw upon you in th' garrison? Erg. Nor knew then of any [353] offence, or his pretences, Which his folly look'd I should divine; he met me on the guard, And drew upon me. We had a little scuffle, Were parted, and he banish'd for the insolence. Cle. Prince Lysicles labours to recall him. Erg. By all means; he was by in the nois'd battle, saw the Prince cleave this man to the twist, [354] divide a second, Overthrow a third; he is his trumpet. Cle. His actions need none. Erg. Wilt thou be happy, Cleon, believe not fame So far, as to make thyself less than another man. There were thousands that served for six sesterces, That did more than both; yet sleep forgotten. 'Tis Now time to meet the ladies on the walk. [ Exeunt. Enter Lysicles ; [355] kneels to the tomb, and then speaks . Lys. I do profane this place, for were my griefs As great as I would boast 'em, I could not live To tell them to the world. Or is the passage which my soul should make, Shut up with sorrow? 'Tis so, and a joy, A hopeful joy, to meet her must give freedom To my sad prisoner, when my hand shall lead This dagger to his heart that parted ours. And heaven, that hear'st this vow, pour on my head Dire thunder, if I shrink in what I promise. And, sacred'st saint, if from thy place of rest, Thou turn'st thy eyes upon thy holy relics, Accept my vows, and pardon me the life Of the curs'd homicide: a full revenge Of thy death and [of] my life's misery Shall make him pay the time he has outliv'd My happiness; and when he is fall'n, Present thyself in all thy glories to me, That my freed soul may owe her liberty To no force, but impatient longing Of re enjoying thee. And, holy tomb, The altar where my heart is nightly offered, Let my wing'd love have passage through thy marble, And fan the sacred ashes, knowing no heat But what he takes from them. So peace and rest Dwell ever with thee. [ Exit. Enter Hermione , Irene , Phillida , all veiled . Ire. Dear Hermione, pinch me, or I shall sink with laughter. Her. What said the stranger, Phillida? I did not hear it. Phil. Nothing, madam. Her. Then he did talk by signs, he was long about it. What was't, Irene? Ire. He long importuned her to show her face, which after many urgings she consented to; and he in recompense made a low reverence to her, and then thanks her for the great favour, and concludes he never did receive so great a one from any woman, since all else have done them with a reference to themselves; but hers was merely goodness, for, before he saw her, he might have suspected her face, handsomely hid, for a piece of beauty, if her virtue would have suffered him to be longer in that error. Phil. I would I were a man for his sake. Ire. So you told him, and he, still courteous for all your anger, promised to give you what you wanted of a man, or teach you how to make one. Her. Thou wilt never be old, wench, if thou still keep'st this humour. Ire. Not a sigh older these seven years, if't please Sir Cupid; for he blows our bellows. [ Enter Ergasto and Cleon .] But look, yonder's your servant, there's no starting now; you must stand to't. But before he comes to interrupt us, observe with me, how in that deep band, short cloak, and his great boots, he looks three storeys high, and his head is the garret where he keeps nothing but lists of horse-matches, and some designs for his next clothes. Phil. Where is his cellarage? Ire. He'll show it thee himself, dear Phillida, and thine too, if thou wilt have him! But they make to us! Erg. Madam, will you honour me and this gentleman with a sight of that which doth enrich the world? Her. You will not take our excuses, if we should say you find us now with more advantage to our beauties. Erg. So breaks the morning forth, but the sun's rays are not so quick and piercing as your eyes, for they descend even to our hearts. Ire. Heaven defend! my heart would tremble, if they should. Erg. Why, madam? Ire. See such impieties as are lodged there in a man, and not be struck with horror! 'tis impossible. Erg. Your wit doth make you cruel. But, madam, I have something to deliver unto you, which your father commanded no ear should hear but yours. Ire. What have you there, Cleon? Cle. Verses, madam. Ire. Whose? Cle. Of Lord Ergasto's, written in celebration of the fair Hermione. Ire. Did he buy them, or found them without a father, and has adopted them for his own? Cle. They are his own. Ire. Here. Cle. I pray read them. Ire. What have I deserved of you, good Cleon, that you should make me read his verses in his own presence? If you think I have not already as ill an opinion of him as I can have, you lose your labour. Cle. Read them, and I'll assure you you'll find things well said and seriously; and you will alter your opinion of him. Ire. Pray give them me, I long to be working wonders. [ She reads single words. ] Rubies , Pearls , Roses , Heaven . Do you not think he has done my cousin a simple favour, comparing of her voice to that of heaven? Cle. 'Tis his love makes him do it; not finding any thing on earth fit to express her, he searcheth heaven for a similitude. Ire. Alas! good gentleman, 'tis the first time he ever thought on't; what frequent thunders should I hear, if 'twere as he would have it? Let me counsel you: lay them aside till they have contracted an inch of dust, then with your finger write their epitaph, expressing the mutual quiet they gave men, and received from them; or, as all poisons serve for some use, give them your physician, and let him apply them to his patient for a vomit—this way they may be useful. Cle. However you esteem them, such an elogy would make you think your glass had not yet flattered you. Ire. It cannot; I prevent it, and accuse it for not showing the hills of snow, the rubies, and the roses they say have being from me. But stay—heaven opens, and I see a tempest coming; your poet is a prophet. Her. I'll call an oath to be my witness. Erg. Madam! Her. My own fears light upon me, if the night that eves the day of marriage, doth not shut me from the world. Erg. Why, madam, this intemperance? Her. 'Tis a just anger. Erg. If you are angry, madam, with all that love you, there lives none that has more enemies, every eye that looks upon you you must hate. Ire. Sir Cleon, our friends are engaged; pray let us be o' th' party. What has called up this choler in my sweet cousin? My lord, you have been begging favours. Erg. Yes, of heaven, that it would furnish me with merits fit to deserve your cousin. Ire. When it has [been] granted you, return to her, and renew your suit; but if you stay till then, you must get spectacles to see her beauty with. Her. Why should you hinder your repose and mine? You know I never loved you. Ire. Then he has no reason to accuse you of inconstancy. Erg. Why are you fair? or why has my stars enforced me to love nothing else? Ire. If your love were considerable, what an obligation had your cousin to your stars? Then these remonstrances of yours are impulsive, and not voluntary. Erg. I cannot tell; but when I seriously direct them to you, I'll swear I am bewitched. Cle. Madam, this is repugnant to your other virtues, that you should hate a man for loving you. Before he did profess himself your servant, I know you did receive him with indifferency at least. Whence then proceeds your hate? Her. From his expression of his love. Cle. A cruel son sprung from so mild a father, if he did urge you to anything, might blast your honour. Ire. She would not hear him; and as it is, how much does he oblige her? He's now her servant, and would entreat her to let him be her master; a request strangely modest! Cle. If I were he, I'd take an honourable composition, let her choose whom she pleas'd for husband, and continue her secret servant still. Her. You are uncivil. Enter Pindarus . Cle. Pardon me, madam, this mirth's a liberty; your cousin doth allow me. Here comes your father. [ Pindarus whispers with Ergasto : he speaks to Hermione . Pin. How long is't you have undertaken to be your own disposer? Her. Sir! Pin. After my cares had sought you out a man that brings all blessings that the world calls happy, you must refuse him! Her. Sir, I have taken an oath. Pin. I know the priest that gave it. Do you not blush, being so young, to know how to distinguish the difference of desires! And this so wildly, that you will put off your obedience rather than lose one that you dare not say hath interest in you; but by my hopes of rest, I'll use the power custom and nature give me to force you to your happiness. Enter Lysicles . Lys. How now, my lord? What miracle can raise a tempest here, where so much beauty reigns? Pin. My lord, you are not practised in the cares of fathers: I thought to have seen this gentleman my son to-morrow; and she does refuse him. But—— Lys. It must not be; pardon me, virtue, that I begin an act will set a stain upon my blushing brow. Yet I must thorough. Lord Pindarus, my fortunes carry a pardon with them, when they make me err in acts of ceremonial decencies, they have been so heavy and so mighty, they have bent me so low to th' earth, I could not cast my face upwards to hope a blessing; the cause you are perfect in. Pin. 'Tis a noble sorrow; but your deep melancholy gives it too large a growth. Lys. Thus all do press it; yet had my grief relation only to myself, I would not part them from; my heart and memory they justly do possess. But my father hath no more issue save myself, for to confer his name and fortunes on. Pin. Our Greece would mourn if such a glorious stock should end in the most flourishing branch. Lys. If you do wish it a continuance, 'tis in your power to make it last to ages. Since my Milesia's death, I have not loved a lady equal with your Hermione; in her I hope to lose my swollen misfortunes, and find out a joy that may extinguish them. 'Tis now no time to tell her how much I am her servant; for this lord here, that does pretend to her fair graces, before I had declared myself his rival—perchance you would believe me if I had said, he no way doth deserve her. Pin. Where you pretend, who can? But heaven, that designed a blessing to my child, it had been pride to hope for, hath made her still averse to his pretences; but giving her the liberty of refusing, I know he is removed. Lys. Thus then to-morrow I'll wait on you. Ladies, I am your servant. [ Exit. Pin. My Lord Ergasto, you see with how much candour I have embraced your love; yet, though I do put on a father's strictness in my daughter's presence, I cannot force her to an act whereon for ever will depend her happiness. My house shall still be open to you as my heart. My business calls me, get you home; your servant. [ Exit Pindarus . Cle. Ergasto, my Lord Ergasto, what, have you left your tongue with your heart? Erg. Is she not strangely fair? Cle. You'll not believe me if I should say the contrary. Erg. D'ye think that there are such faces in Elysium? Cle. I'm sure many better go t'other way, if they be not marred in the voyage. But do you remember where you are to meet with Phormio? Erg. Nor anything else; her beauty makes me forget all things that has no reference to it. Cle. Heyday! if within these two hours you do not forget the cause of this forgetfulness, I'll be an eunuch. What, if the prince should be your rival? I cannot tell, but my Lord Pindarus on a sudden fell from his anger to his daughter to a ceremony to you might be suspected. Erg. 'Tis a fear that makes me tremble. Cle. Courage, man! If you have not lost your memory, your remedy is certain. There are more handsome faces will recompense this loss. Let us meet Phormio. [ Exeunt. FOOTNOTES: [351] [ i.e. , The wound not being, &c.] [352] [This is the second scene of Act i., though not so marked. The entrance of Lysicles, with his page and torch, was in dumb-show, the tomb having been apparently placed in the back of the stage while the curtain was drawn.] [353] [Old copy, any of .] [354] [Fork, Fr. fourchure .] [355] [He must be supposed, from the preceding direction, to have been in the back of the stage.] ACT II., SCENE 1. Enter Hermione , Irene , and Phillida . Ire. Have you sent for the Egyptian lady? Her. I have; and she'll be here within this half-hour. Ire. She speaks our language. Her. Her father was of Greece a wealthy merchant, and his business enforcing him to leave his country, he married a lady of that place, where he lived, who, excellent in the mystery of divination, hath left that knowledge to her daughter, enriched with thousand other modest virtues, as is delivered to me by those are frequent with her. Ire. Do you believe what Phillida say'th is the voice of all your friends? Her. What is't? Ire. That you shall marry with Prince Lysicles. Phil. I heard your uncle say the governor did receive it with all appearances of joy, in hope this match will free him from this deep melancholy: and 'tis determined the next feast joins your hands. Her. The grave must be my bed then. With what harsh fate doth heaven afflict me, That all those blessings which make others happy Must be my ruin! But if this lady's knowledge Shall inform me that I shall ne'er enjoy Eugenio, Darkness shall seize me, ere [the] tapers light My blushes to the forsworn Hymen's rites. Ire. Why should you labour your disquiet, cousin? Anticipating thus your knowledge, you will make Your future sufferings present; and so call Lasting griefs upon you, which your hopes might Dissipate, till heaven had made your mind Strong enough to encounter them. Her. Dear Irene, Our stars, whose influence doth govern us, Are not malignant to us, but whilst we Remain in this false earth. He that hath courage To divest himself of that, removes with it Their powers to hurt him; and injur'd Love, Who sees that fortune would usurp his power, I know will not be wanting. See, the lady Enter Acanthe the Moor . Comes! Madam, the excuse that justifies sick men That send for their physician, must beg my pardon, That did not visit you to have this honour. Here you see a virgin that hath long stood The mark of fortune, and now's so full of misery That, though the gods resented what I suffer, Yet I fear that they have plung'd me to extremes, Exceed their own assistance. Moor. Fear not their power. Her. I do not; but their will to help me I must doubt; For those that know no reason of their hate Must fear it is perpetual. And let the ensigns of their wrath fall on me, If e'er by any willing act I have provok'd Their justice. To you now, in whom 'tis said, As in their oracle they speak, I come to know What mighty growth of dangers are decreed me. Moor. First, dearest lady, do not think my power Great as my will to serve you; 'tis so weak That, if you should rely on't, I shall seem Cold in your service, when it does not answer What is expected from it. All I know Is but conjectured; for our stars incline, Not force us in our actions. Let me observe your face. Her. Do, and if yet you are not perfect in Your mysteries, observe mine well; and when you meet A face branded with such a line, conclude It miserable: when an eye that doth Resemble this, teach it to weep betimes, That so being lost, it may not see those miseries Must be its only object. [ The Moor starts . Are my misfortunes of that horrid shape That the mere speculation doth affright Those whose compassion only it concerns? I, that must stand the strokes then, what defence Shall I prepare against them? Yet a hope That they be ripen'd now to fall on me, Lightens a desperate joy to my dark soul: For the last dart shall be embrac'd as remedy To cure my former wounds. Moor. It is not that; I was surprised in considering I must Partake of all your fortunes; for our ascendants Threaten like danger to us both. Her. Are then my miseries grown infectious too? Must that be added? Pardon me, gentle lady; this Sad crime I must account amongst my secret faults: I meant no more but to communicate, Not part my sorrows with you. Moor. [O,] would you could; with what great willingness Should I embrace a share of what afflicts you? I'd haste to meet and ease you of your fears. Now if to one, whose interest doth force her To advance your hopes, you dare deliver The cause of your disquiet, you shall find a closet, If not a fort, to vindicate your fears. Her. You shall know all. I have exchang'd my heart With a young gentleman's, now banished His country and my hopes; his rival labours To make me his; my father resolute I should Consent, till fortune chang'd, but lessen'd not My sufferings; for our prince, Lysicles, Ruins me with the honour of his search. Moor. Does Eugenio know you love him? Her. No. Moor. Why does he doubt it? Her. A womanish scorn to have my love reveal'd, Made me receive his declaration of it As an affront unto my honour, and when He came to take his leave, I left him In the opinion I would obey my father. Moor. I have heard as much; but [these] contradictions In the prince's actions do amaze me: They say he loves your friend, and labours now For to recall him; and that every night He courts his former flame, hid in the ashes Of his lost mistress. Her. By this judge how miserable I am? That my malignant stars force them to change Nature and virtue too, that else would shine Unmoved, like the star that does direct The wand'ring seaman. Must then nature change, And will not fortune cease to persecute? Good gods! I will submit to all but breach of faith. Moor. They will not hear us, madam, unless we Contribute to their aid our best endeavours. I have thought a way may for a time secure you: You must dissemble with the prince, and seem To love Ergasto. 'Tis not impossible, but he, seeing you Prefer one so far beneath him, may provoke A just neglect from him. Then for Ergasto, Besides the time you gain, there may succeed A thousand ways to hinder his pretence. Her. Can my heart e'er consent my tongue should say, I am for any other but Eugenio? No, my dear love, though cruel fate hath sever'd My vow'd embraces, yet hath death ice enough To fright all others from them. Moor. I see love is a child still; what a trifle Doth now disturb him! You will not get your health At the price of saying you are sick. I know There is another remedy more proportion'd For your disease, but not for you that suffer, Which is this: Tell the prince that you're engag'd, but he That broke with vows and friendship for your love, Will not desist for such suppos'd slight lets; And then your father will force you t' his will. Her. If the prince leave me, it is most certain He'll use his power to make me take Ergasto. Moor. Those that in dangers that do press them nearly, Will not resolve upon some hazard, and Give leave to chance to govern what Our knowledge cannot hinder, must sit still, And wait their preservation from a miracle. Her. I am determin'd; for knives, fire, and seas Shall lose their qualities, ere fate shall make Me his: and if death cannot be Shunn'd, I will meet it boldly. Enter Irene . Ire. Cousin, the prince is come to see you. Moor. Good madam, use some means that I may speak With him before he goes: my heart doth promise I shall do something in your service; and Be sure, when he first speaks of love, seem not To understand him. [ Exit. ACT II., SCENE 2. Enter Lysicles . Lys. Madam, I've begg'd leave of your noble father to Offer up myself a servant to your virtues. Her. It is a grace our family must boast of That you descend to visit those that style Themselves your creatures, made such by your goodness, Which we can only pay by frequent prayers, That your line may last as glorious to Posterity, as your now living fame is. Lys. Madam, you were not wont by a feign'd praise To scorn those that admire you; or would you Thus insinuate what I should be by telling Me I am, what I must ever aim at? Her. Were there proportion 'twixt our births, my lord, 'Twould ill become a virgin's mouth to utter, How much you do deserve; that will excuse, When I shall say our Greece ne'er saw your equal. Lys. I did not think I ever could be mov'd With my own praise; but now my happiness So much depends, that you shall truly think What now you utter of me; that I glory My actions are thus favour'd by your judgment. Her. We must forget our safeties and the gods, Whose instrument you were of our deliverance, When we are silent of the mighty debt This kingdom owes your courage. Lys. This declaration of your favouring me will plead My pardon, if I do omit the ceremonial circumstance, Which usually makes way for this great truth I now must utter. Madam, I do love Your virtues with that adoration, That the all-seeing sun does not behold A lady that I love with equal ardour. Our friends, who have most power over us, both Do second my desires of joining us In the sacred tie of marriage. Her. My lord, I thought at first how ill my words Became a virgin; but give 'em the right sense: They were design'd, which was to speak you truly, Not with a flatt'ring ambition They might engage you to the love of one So far unequal. If I have ever gain'd Anything on your goodness, I'll not lose it By foolishly aspiring to that height You must in honour dispossess me of, When I was seated. Marry you, my lord! The king, our neighbour princes, all good men Must curse me as a stain to those great virtues You're the single lord of. If you speak this to try What easy conquest you can make of all You faintly but pretend to, I'll confess The weakness of our sex would be prouder Only to have the shows of your affection, Than real loves of any they can hope With justice to attain to. Lys. Whatever I deserve, The gods have largely recompens'd my intent Of doing virtuously, if it hath gain'd so much Upon your goodness as to make a way For my affection. Her. My lord, I do not understand you. Lys. Pardon me, dearest lady, if my words Too boldly do deliver what my actions And frequent services should first have smooth'd The way they are to take. My happiness So nearly is concern'd, you shall approve Me for your servant, that I trembling haste, To know what rigours or what joys expect me, But ere you do begin to speak my fate, Know whom you do condemn, or whom make happy: One, that when misery had made so wretched, That it ravished his desires to change, Whose eyes were turned inward on his grief, Pleas'd with no object but what caus'd their tears, Your beauty only rais'd from his dark seat Of circling sorrows, lighting me a hope By you I might receive all happiness, The gods have made, my heart capacious of. Her. Good my lord, give me leave again to say, I dare not understand you; you are too noble To glory in the conquest of a heart That ever hath admir'd you; and to think You can so far forget your birth and virtue, As to believe me fit to be your wife, Were a presumption that swelling pride Must be the father of, which never yet My heart could be allied to. Continue, prince: Be the example of a constant love, And let not your Milesia's ashes shrink With a new-piercing cold, which they will feel I'th' instant that your heart shall be consenting To any new affection; and give me leave to say, Your mind can ne'er admit a noble love, If it hath banish'd hers your memory. Lys. Must that be argument of cruelty, Which should be cause of pity? And will you Assume the patronage of envious fortune, By adding torments unto her affliction? Must I be miserable in losing you, Because the gods thought me unworthy her? Did I so easily digest her death, That I want pity, and am thought unworthy Of all succeeding love? Witness my loss Of joys; if sorrow could have kill'd me, I had not lived to show your mercy. Her. Protect me, virtue! [ Aside. Pardon me, my lord! I know your griefs How great and just they are, and only meant By mentioning Milesia to confess, How much unworthy I am to succeed her In your affection which, though you bent As low as I durst raise myself to reach, 'Twere now impiety for me to grasp, I being no more my own disposer. Lys. Ha! what fate hath taken you from yourself? Her. The Lord Ergasto's importunity; Who, though at first no inclination Of mine made me affect his vows, Hath vanquish'd my determination. I finding nothing in myself deserving The constancy of his affection to me, Besides my father's often urging me To make my choice obeying [356] his commands, And threat'ning misery if I declin'd the least— Knowing his violent nature, I consented To a contract 'twixt me and the Lord Ergasto. Her. O, the prophecies of my just [357] fears, how true My heart foretold you! Madam, it cannot be you should affect One that hath no desert but what you give, By making him a part of you. My hopes, Though always blasted, could not apprehend A fear from him. I should be happy yet, If any worthy love shadowed my shame Of being refused by you. Her. Give not my want of power to serve your grace, The cruel title of refusing you. Your merits are so great, you may assure yourself Of all you can desire, that's possible To grant, whom thousands worthier than myself Would kneel to. By my life, if my faith were not given, I would Here offer up myself to be dispos'd by you. Though no ambitious pride could flatter me, You could descend to raise me to your height. Lys. Must this be added to my former griefs That, in the instant you profess to pity What I must suffer in your loss—your virtue, For which I [most] admire you, must exclude My hopes of ever changing your resolves? Yet let my vows gain thus much of you, That for a month you will not marry him; I know your father will not force you to't, For he, not knowing what hath pass'd between you, Consented to this visit. Her. By all things holy, this I swear to do, Though violent diseases should enclose me, Till the priest join'd our hands; yet, if you please, Let not my father know but he's the cause, I dare not look upon the mighty blessing Your love doth promise. Lys. May I not know the reason? Her. That he may know that his unquestion'd power Hath forc'd me to that error which himself And I must ever mourn unpitied. [358] Lys. Now you throw oil upon the wound you make: I may be ignorant of all things else, But of my want of merit to deserve I am most perfect in: be happy, lady, He that enjoys you shall not need that prayer— My father's business calls me. Her. Let me entreat you, that you'll see a lady, Whose virtue does deserve the honour of Your knowledge. Lys. What is she? Her. An Egyptian lady, lately come to Cirrha. Lys. I have heard of her; they say she knows Our actions pass'd and future. Her. When you her know, you will believe, That virtue chose that dark inhabitation, To hide her treasure from the envious world, I'll call her to your grace. [Acanthe!] Enter Acanthe .

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