Cort. Monarchs may err; but should each private breast Judge their ill acts, they would dispute their best.
Cyd. Then all your care is for your prince, I see;
Your truth to him out-weighs your love to me:
You may so cruel to deny me prove,
But never after that pretend to love.
Cort. Command my life, and I will soon obey; To save my honour I my blood will pay.
Cyd. What is this honour which does love controul?
Cort. A raging fit of virtue in the soul; A painful burden which great minds must bear, Obtained with danger, and possest with fear.
Cyd. Lay down that burden if it painful grow; You'll find, without it, love will lighter go.
Cort. Honour, once lost, is never to be found.
Alib. Perhaps he looks to have both passions crowned; First dye his honour in a purple flood, Then court the daughter in the father's blood.
Cort. The edge of war I'll from the battle take, And spare her father's subjects for her sake.
Cyd. I cannot love you less when I'm refused.
But I can die to be unkindly used;
Where shall a maid's distracted heart find rest.
If she can miss it in her lover's breast?