Evan. 'Tis true, Madam,
'Thas pleas'd his goodness to be pleasant with me.
Que. 'Tis strange to find thy modesty in this place,
Does the King offer fair? does thy face take him?
Ne'r blush Evanthe, 'tis a very sweet one,
Does he rain gold, and precious promises
Into thy lap? will he advance thy fortunes?
Shalt thou be mighty, Wench?
Evan. Never mock, Madam;
'Tis rather on your part to be lamented,
At least reveng'd, I can be mighty Lady,
And glorious too, glorious and great, as you are.
Que. He will Marry thee?
Evan. Who would not be a Queen, Madam?
Que. 'Tis true Evanthe, 'tis a brave ambition,
A golden dream, that may delude a good mind,
What shall become of me?
Evan. You must learn to pray,
Your age and honour will become a Nunnery.
Que. Wilt thou remember me? [Weeps.
Evan. She weeps. Sweet Lady
Upon my knees I ask your sacred pardon,
For my rude boldness: and know, my sweet Mistris,
If e're there were ambition in Evanthe,
It was and is to do you faithful duties;
'Tis true I have been tempted by the King,
And with no few and potent charms, to wrong ye,
To violate the chaste joyes of your bed;
And those not taking hold, to usurp your state;
But she that has been bred up under ye,
And daily fed upon your vertuous precepts,
Still growing strong by example of your goodness,
Having no errant motion from obedience,
Flyes from these vanities, as meer illusions;
And arm'd with honesty, defies all promises.
In token of this truth, I lay my life down
Under your sacred foot, to do you service.
Que. Rise my true friend, thou vertuous bud of beauty,
Thou Virgins honour, sweetly blow and flourish,
And that rude nipping wind, that seeks to blast thee,
Or taint thy root, be curst to all posterity;
To my protection from this hour I take ye,
Yes, and the King shall know—