Cel. So dutiful;
Because you urge it, Sir.
Val. It may be then
It is your self.
Cel. It is indeed, I know it,
And now know how ye love me.
Val. O my dearest,
Let but your goodness judge; your own part's pity;
Set but your eyes on his afflictions;
He is mine, and so becomes your charge: but think
What ruine Nature suffers in this young man,
What loss humanity, and noble manhood;
Take to your better judgment my declining,
My Age hung full of impotence, and ills,
My Body budding now no more: seer Winter
Hath seal'd that sap up, at the best and happiest
I can but be your infant, you my Nurse,
And how unequal dearest; where his years,
His sweetness, and his ever spring of goodness,
My fortunes growing in him, and my self too,
Which makes him all your old love; misconceive not,
I say not this as weary of my bondage,
Or ready to infringe my faith; bear witness,
Those eyes that I adore still, those lamps that light me
To all the joy I have.
Cel. You have said enough, Sir,
And more than e'r I thought that tongue could utter,
But you are a man, a false man too.
Val. Dear Cellide.
Cel. And now, to shew you that I am a woman
Rob'd of her rest, and fool'd out of her fondness,
The Gentleman shall live, and if he love me,
Ye shall be both my triumphs; I will to him,
And as you carelessly fling off your fortune,
And now grow weary of my easie winning,
So will I lose the name of Valentine,
From henceforth all his flatteries, and believe it,
Since ye have so slightly parted with affection,
And that affection you have pawn'd your faith for;
From this hour no repentance, vows, nor prayers
Shall pluck me back again; what I shall do,
Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it,
Shall minister no comfort, no content
To either of ye, but hourly more vexations.
Val. Why, let him dye then.
Cel. No, so much I have loved
To be commanded by you, that even now,
Even in my hate, I will obey your wishes.
Val. What shall I do?