Charl. This vizard wherewith thou wouldst hide thy spirit,
Is perspective, to shew it plainlier.
This undervalue of thy life, is but
Because I should not buy thee, what more speaks
Greatness of man, than valiant patience,
That shrinks not under his fates strongest strokes?
These Roman deaths, as falling on a sword,
Opening of veins, with poison quenching thirst,
(Which we erroneously do stile the deeds
Of the heroick and magnanimous man)
Was dead-ey'd cowardize, and white-cheek'd fear,
Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortunes false Lottery, desperately run
To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout,
That bearing all mischance, dares last it out;
Will you perform your word, and marry me,
When I shall call you to't?
Enter Longueville with a riding-rod.
Mont. I'faith I will.
Charl. Who's this alights here?
Long. With leave, fair creature, are you the Lady Mistriss of the house?
Charl. Her servant, Sir.
Long. I pray then favour me, to inform your Lady, and Duke Orleans wife,
A business of import awaits 'em here,
And craves for speedy answer.
Charl. Are you in post, Sir?
Long. No, I am in Satin, Lady; I would you would be in post.