Por. You doom me then to suffer all this ill, And yet I doom myself to love you still.
Ber. Dare not Porphyrius suffer then with me, Since what for him, I for myself decree?
Por. How can I bear those griefs you disapprove?
Ber. To ease them, I'll permit you still to love.
Por. That will but haste my death, if you think fit Not to reward, but barely to permit. Love without hope does like a torture wound, Which makes me reach in pain, to touch the ground.
Ber. If hope, then, to your life so needful be, Hope still.
Por. Blest news!
Ber. But hope in heaven, not me.
Por. Love is too noble such deceits to use: Referring me to heaven, your gift I lose. So princes cheaply may our wants supply, When they give that, their treasurers deny.
Ber. Love blinds my virtue:—If I longer stay It will grow dark, and I shall lose my way.