Ast. A man, methinks, of vulgar parts and presence!
Queen. Or, allow him something handsome, valiant, Or so—Yet this to me!—
Ast. The workmanship of inconsiderate favour,
The creature of rash love; one of those meteors
Which monarchs raise from earth,
And people, wondering how they came so high,
Fear, from their influence, plagues, and wars, and famine.
Queen. Ha!
Ast. One, whom, instead of banishing a day,
You should have plumed of all his borrowed honours,
And let him see what abject things they are,
Whom princes often love without desert.
Queen. What has my Philocles deserved from thee,
That thou shouldst use him thus?
Were he the basest of mankind, thou couldst not
Have given him ruder language.
Ast. Did not your majesty command me? Did not yourself begin?
Queen. I grant I did, but I have right to do it:
I love him, and may rail; in you 'tis malice;
Malice in the most high degree; for never man
Was more deserving than my Philocles.
Or, do you love him, ha! and plead that title?
Confess, and I'll forgive you—
For none can look on him, but needs must love.
Ast. I love him, madam! I beseech your majesty, Have better thoughts of me.
Queen. Dost thou not love him then?
Good heaven, how stupid, and how dull is she?
How most invincibly insensible!
No woman does deserve to live,
That loves not Philocles.