Enter Crocale, Sebastian, Nicusa, Tibalt.
Who are these? what spectacles of misfortune?
Why are their looks
So full of Joy and Wonder?
Cro. Oh! lay by
These instruments of death, and welcome
To your arms, what you durst never hope to imbrace:
This is Sebastian, this Nicusa, Madam:
Preserv'd by miracle: look up dear Sir,
And know your own Rossella: be not lost
In wonder and amazement; or if nature
Can by instinct, instruct you what it is,
To be blessed with the name of Father,
Freely enjoy it in this fair Virgin.
Seb. Though my miseries,
And many years of wants I have endur'd,
May well deprive me of the memory
Of all joys past; yet looking on this building,
This ruin'd building of a heavenly form
In my Rosilla; I must remember, I am Sebastian.
Ros. Oh my joyes!
Seb. And here,
I see a perfect model of thy self,
As thou wert when thy choice first made thee mine:
These cheeks and fronts, though wrinkled now with time
Which Art cannot restore: had equal pureness,
Of natural white and red, and as much ravishing:
Which by fair order and succession,
I see descend on her: and may thy virtues
Wind into her form, and make her a perfect dower:
No part of thy sweet goodness wanting to her.
I will not now Rosilla, ask thy fortunes,
Nor trouble thee with hearing mine;
Those shall hereafter serve to make glad hours
In their relation: All past wrongs forgot;
I'm glad to see you Gentlemen; but most,
That [it] is in my power to save your lives;
You say'd ours, when we were near starv'd at Sea,
And I despair not, for if she be mine,
Rosilla can deny Sebastian nothing.
Ros. She does give up her self,
Her power and joys, and all, to you,
To be discharged of 'em as too burthensom;
Welcome in any shape.
Seb. Sir, in your looks,
I read your sute of my Clarinda: she is yours:
And Lady, if it be in me to confirm
Your hopes in this brave Gentleman,
Presume I am your servant.
Alb. We thank you Sir.
Amin. Oh happy hour!