Max. Stay, let me once more bid farewel, Lucina,
Farewel thou excellent example of us,
Thou starry Vertue, fare thee well, seek Heaven,
And there by Cassiopea shine in Glory,
We are too base and dirty to preserve thee.
Æcius. Nay, I must kiss too; such a kiss again,
And from a Woman of so ripe a Vertue,
Æcius must not take; Farewel thou Phœnix,
If thou wilt dye, Lucina; which well weigh'd,
If you can cease a while from these strange thoughts,
I wish were rather alter'd.
Luc. No.
Æcius. Mistake not;
I would not stain your honour for the Empire,
Nor any way decline you to discredit,
'Tis not my fair profession, but a Villains;
I find and feel your loss as deep as you do,
And am the same, Æcius, still as honest,
The same life I have still for Maximus,
The same Sword wear for you, where Justice wills me,
And 'tis no dull one; therefore misconceive me not;
Only I would have you live a little longer,
But a short year.
Max. She must not.
Luc. Why so long, Sir,
Am I not grey enough with grief already?
Æci. To draw from that wild man a sweet repentance,
And goodness in his days to come.
Max. They are so,
And will be ever coming, my Æcius.
Æcius. For who knows but the sight of you, presenting
His swoln sins at the full, and your fair vertues,
May like a fearful Vision fright his follies,
And once more bend him right again? which blessing
(If your dark wrongs would give you leave to read)
Is more than death, and the reward more glorious;
Death, only eases you, this, the whole Empire;
Besides, compell'd and forc'd with violence,
To what ye have done, the deed is none of yours,
No, nor the justice neither; ye may live,
And still a worthier Woman, still more honoured;
For are those trees the worse we tear the fruits from?
Or should the eternal gods desire to perish
Because we daily violate their truths,
Which is the Chastity of Heaven? No, Lady,
If ye dare live, ye may; and as our sins
Make them more full of equity and justice,
So this compulsive wrong makes you more perfect;
The Empire too will bless you.
Max. Noble Sir,
If she were any thing to me but honour,
And that that's wedded to me too, laid in,
Not to be worn away without my being;
Or could the wrongs be hers alone, or mine,
Or both our wrongs, not ty'd to after issues,
Not born anew in all our names and kindreds,
I would desire her live, nay more, compel her:
But since it was not Youth, but Malice did it,
And not her own, nor mine, but both our losses,
Nor stays it there, but that our names must find it,
Even those to come; and when they read, she liv'd,
Must they not ask how often she was ravish'd,
And make a doubt she lov'd that more than Wedlock?
Therefore she must not live.