Mart. Nature nere promised thee a thing so noble.
Take back your love, your vow, I give it freely;
I poorly scorn it; graze now where you please:
That that the dulness of thy soul neglected,
Kings sue for now. And mark me, Virolet,
Thou image of a man, observe my words well.
At such a bloody rate I'll sell this beauty,
This handsomness thou scornst and flingst away,
Thy proud ungrateful life shall shake at: take your house,
The petty things you left me give another;
And last, take home your trinket: fare you well, Sir.
Ron. You have spoke like your self;
Y'are a brave Lady. [Exeunt Ronvere and Martia.
Jul. Why do you smile, Sir?
Vir. O my Juliana,
The happiness this womans scorn has given me,
Makes me a man again; proclaims it self,
In such a general joy, through all my miseries,
That now methinks—
Jul. Look to your self dear Sir,
And trifle not with danger that attends you;
Be joyful when y'are free.
Vir. Did you not hear her?
She gave me back my vow, my love, my freedom;
I am free, free as air; and though to morrow
Her bloody will meet with my life, and sink it,
And in her execution tear me piecemeal:
Yet have I time once more to meet my wishes,
Once more to embrace my best, my noblest, truest;
And time that's warranted.
Jul. Good Sir, forbear it:
Though I confess, equal with your desires
My wishes rise, as covetous of your love,
And to as warm alarums spur my will to:
Yet pardon me, the Seal o'th' Church dividing us,
And hanging like a threatning flame between us,
We must not meet, I dare not.
Vir. That poor disjoynting
That only strong necessity thrust on you,
Not crime, nor studied cause of mine: how sweetly,
And nobly I will bind again and cherish;
How I will recompence one dear imbrace now,
One free affection! how I burn to meet it!
Look now upon me.
Jul. I behold you willingly,
And willingly would yield, but for my credit.
The love you first had was preserv'd with honor,
The last shall not cry whore; you shall not purchase
From me a pleasure, that have equally
Lov'd your fair fame as you, at such a rate:
Your honesty and virtue must be bankrupt,
If I had lov'd your lust, and not your lustre;
The glorious lustre of your matchless goodness,
I would compel you now to be!—forgive me,
Forgive me Sir, how fondly still I love you!
Yet nobly too; make the way straight before me,
And let but holy Hymen once more guide me,
Under the Ax upon the Rack again,
Even in the bed of all afflictions,
Where nothing sings our Nuptials but dire sorrows,
With all my youth and pleasure I'll imbrace you,
Make Tyranny and death stand still affrighted,
And at our meeting souls amaze our mischiefs;
Till when, high heaven defend you, and peace guide you.
Be wise and manly, make your fate your own,
By being master of a providence,
That may controle it.
Vir. Stay a little with me,
My thoughts have chid themselves: may I not kiss you?
Upon my truth I am honest.