Dru. O, you give it
Too mild a name; 'twas more than barbarous,
And you a Partner in't.
Del. I, Drusilla?
Dru. Yes,
You have blown his swoln Pride to that vastness,
As he believes the Earth is in his fathom,
This makes him quite forget his humble Being;
And can I hope that he, that only fed
With the imagin'd food of future Empire,
Disdains even those that gave him means and life
To nourish such desires, when he's possess'd
Of his ambitious ends (which must fall on him,
Or your Predictions are false) will ever
Descend to look on me!
Del. Were his intents
Perfidious as the Seas or Winds, his heart
Compos'd of falshood; yet the benefit,
The greatness of the good he has from you,
(For what I have confer'd, is thine, Drusilla)
Must make him firm, and thankful; But if all
Remembrance of the debts he stands engag'd for,
Find a quick Grave in his Ingratitude,
My powerful Art, that guides him to this height
Shall make him curse the hour he e'r was rais'd,
Or sink him to the Centre.
Dru. I had rather
Your Art could force him to return that ardour
To me, I bear to him; or give me power
To moderate my passions; yet I know not,
I should repent your grant, though you had sign'd it,
(So well I find he's worthy of all service)
But to believe that any check to him
In his main hopes, could yield content to me,
Were treason to true love, that knows no pleasure,
The object that it dotes on ill affected.
Del. Pretty simplicity; I love thee for't,
And will not sit an idle looker on,
And see it cozen'd; dry thy innocent eyes,
And cast off jealous fears, (yet promises
Are but lip comfort) and but fancy ought
That's possible in Nature, or in Art,
That may advance thy comfort, and be bold
To tell thy Soul 'tis thine; therefore speak freely.
Dru. You new create me. To conceal from you
My virgin-fondness, were to hide my sickness
From my Physician. O dear Aunt, I languish
For want of Diocles's sight; he is the Sun
That keeps my blood in a perpetual Spring;
But in his absence, cold benumming Winter
Seizes on all my faculties. Would you bind me
(That am your Slave already) in more fetters,
And (in the place of service) to adore you?
O bear me then (but 'tis impossible,
I fear to be effected) where I may
See how my Diocles breaks thorow his dangers,
And in what heaps his honours flow upon him,
That I may meet him, in the height and pride
Of all his glories, and there (as your gift)
Challenge him as mine own.
Del. Enjoy thy wishes;
This is an easie Boon, which at thy years,
I could have given to any; but now grown
Perfect in all the hidden mysteries
Of that inimitable Art, which makes us
Equal even to the gods, and Natures wonders,
It shall be done, as fits my skill and glory:
To break thorow bolts, and locks, a Scholars prize
For Thieves, and Pick-locks: to pass thorow an Army
Cover'd with night, or some disguise, the practice
Of poor and needy Spies: No, my Drusilla,
From Ceres I will force her winged Dragons,
And in the air hung over the Tribunal;
(The Musick of the Spheres attending on us.)
There, as his good Star, thou shalt shine upon him,
If he prove true, and as his Angel guard him.
But if he dare be false, I, in a moment
Will put that glorious light out, with such horrour,
As if the eternal Night had seiz'd the Sun,
Or all things were return'd to the first Chaos,
And then appear like Furies.
Dru. I will do
What e're you shall command.
Del. Rest then assur'd,
I am the Mistris of my Art, and fear not. [Exeunt.