Bian. You are disclaym'd
For being the Lord Alberto's Son, and publickly
Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is,
It cannot chuse but greive ye.
Ces. Greive me? Ha ha ha ha? Is this all?
Bian. This all?
Ces. Thou art sorry for't
I warrant thee: alas good soul, Biancha,
That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness,
My happiness Biancha.
Bian. If you love me, it may prove mine too.
Ces. May it? I will love thee.
My good, good maid,
If that can make thee happy,
Better and better love thee.
Bian. Without breach then
Of modesty I come to claime the Interest
Your protestations, both by vows and letters,
Have made me owner of: from the first hour
I saw you, I confess I wisht I had been
Or not so much below your rank and greatness,
Or not so much above those humble flames
That should have warm'd my bosome with a temperate
Equality of desires in equal fortunes.
Still as you utter'd Language of affection,
I courted time to pass more slowly on
That I might turn more fool to lend attention
To what I durst not credit, nor yet hope for:
Yet still as more I heard, I wisht to hear more.
Ces. Didst thou introth wench?
Bian. Willingly betraid
My self to hopeless bondage.
Ces. A good girl,
I thought I should not miss
What ere thy answer was.