Luci. The Gods shall kill me first.
Lici. There's better dying;
I'th' Emperours arms goe to, but be not angry—
These are but talks sweet Lady.
Enter Phorba, and Ardelia.
Phor. Where is this stranger? rushes, Ladys, rushes,
Rushes as green as Summer for this stranger.
Pro. Here's Ladies come to see you.
Luci. You are gone then?
I take it 'tis your Qu.
Pro. Or rather manners,
You are better fitted Madam, we but tire ye,
Therefore we'l leave you for an hour, and bring
Your much lov'd Lord unto you— [Exeunt.
Luci. Then I'le thank ye,
I am betrai'd for certain; well Lucina,
If thou do'st fall from vertue, may the Earth
That after death should shoot up gardens of thee,
Spreading thy living goodness into branches,
Fly from thee, and the hot Sun find thy vices.
Pho. You are a welcom woman.