Queen. Hold, Asteria!—
I would not have you guess; for should you find it,
I should imagine that some other might,
And then I were most wretched:—
Therefore, though you should know it, flatter me,
And say you could not guess it.
Ast. Madam, I need not flatter you, I cannot—and yet, Might not ambition trouble your repose?
Queen. My Sicily, I thank the Gods, contents me.
But, since I must reveal it, know,—'tis love:
I, who pretended so to glory, am
Become the slave of love.
Ast. I thought your majesty had framed designs
To subvert all your laws; become a tyrant,
Or vex your neighbours, with injurious wars;
Is this all, madam?
Queen. Is not this enough?
Then, know, I love below myself; a subject;
Love one, who loves another, and who knows not
That I love him.
Ast. He must be told it, madam.
Queen. Not for the world, Asteria: Whene'er he knows it, I shall die for shame.
Ast. What is it, then, that would content you?
Queen. Nothing, but that I had not lov'd.
Ast. May I not ask, without offence, who 'tis?