Por. Sir—
Max. I'll not hear you speak, her crime is plain; She owns her pride, which you perhaps may feign. She shall be prisoner till she bend her mind To that, which is for both of you designed.
Val. You'll find it hard my free-born will to bound.
Max. I'll find that power o'er wills, which heaven ne'er found. Free-will's a cheat in any one but me; In all but kings, 'tis willing slavery; An unseen fate which forces the desire; The will of puppets danced upon a wire. A monarch is The spirit of the world in every mind; He may match wolves to lambs, and make it kind. Mine is the business of your little fates; And though you war, like petty wrangling states, You're in my hand; and, when I bid you cease, You shall be crushed together into peace.
Val. Thus by the world my courage will be prized; [Aside.
Seeming to scorn, who am, alas, despised: Dying for love's, fulfilling honour's laws; A secret martyr, while I own no cause. [Exit Val.
Max. Porphyrius, stay; there's some thing I would hear: You said you loved, and you must tell me where.
Por. All heaven is to my sole destruction bent. [Aside.
Max. You would, it seems, have leisure to invent.
Por. Her name in pity, sir, I must forbear, Lest my offences you revenge on her.