Ard. And besides,
She has the Empires cause in hand, not loves;
There lies the main consideration,
For which she is chiefly born.
Phor. She finds that point
Stronger than we can tell her, and believe it
I look by her means for a reformation,
And such a one, and such a rare way carried
That all the world shall wonder at.
Ard. 'Tis true;
I never thought the Emperor had wisdom,
Pity, or fair affection to his Country,
Till he profest this love: gods give 'em Children,
Such as her vertues merit, and his zeal.
I look to see a Numa from this Lady,
Or greater than Octavius.
Phor. Do you mark too,
Which is a Noble vertue, how she blushes,
And what a flowing modesty runs through her,
When we but name the Emperour?
Ard. But mark it,
Yes, and admire it too, for she considers,
Though she be fair as Heaven, and vertuous
As holy truth, yet to the Emperour
She is a kind of nothing but her service,
Which she is bound to offer, and she'll do it,
And when her Countries cause commands affection,
She knows obedience is the key of vertues,
Then flye the blushes out like Cupid's arrows,
And though the tye of Marriage to her Lord
Would fain cry, stay Lucina, yet the cause
And general wisdom of the Princes love,
Makes her find surer ends and happier,
And if the first were chaste, this is twice doubled.
Phor. Her tartness unto us too.
Ard. That's a wise one.
Phor. I rarely like, it shews a rising wisdom,
That chides all common fools as dare enquire
What Princes would have private.
Ard. What a Lady
Shall we be blest to serve?
Luc. Go get ye from me:
Ye are your purses Agents, not the Princes:
Is this the vertuous Lore ye train'd me out to?
Am I a woman fit to imp your vices?
But that I had a Mother, and a woman
Whose ever living fame turns all it touches,
Into the good it self is, I should now
Even doubt my self, I have been search't so near
The very soul of honour: why should you two,
That happily have been as chaste as I am,
Fairer, I think, by much, for yet your faces,
Like ancient well built piles, shew worthy ruins,
After that Angel age, turn mortal Devils?
For shame, for woman-hood, for what ye have been,
For rotten Cedars have born goodly branches,
If ye have hope of any Heaven, but Court,
Which like a Dream, you'l find hereafter vanish,
Or at the best but subject to repentance,
Study no more to be ill spoken of;
Let women live themselves, if they must fall,
Their own destruction find 'em, not your Fevours.