Phil. Was this your proposition?— And had you none to make it to but me?
Lys. Pray hear me out, ere you condemn me!—
I would not the least violence were offered
Her person. Two small grants is all I ask;
To make me happy in herself, and you
In your Candiope.
Cand. And will not you do this, my Philocles?— Nay, now my brother speaks but reason.
Phil. Interest makes all seem reason, that leads to it. Interest, that does the zeal of sects create, To purge a church, and to reform a state.
Lys. In short, the queen hath sent to part you two:— What more she means to her, I know not.
Phil. To her, alas!—Why, will not you protect her?
Lys. With you I can; but where's my power alone?
Cand. You know she loves me not: You lately heard her,
How she insulted over me: How she
Despised that beauty, which you say I have.—
I see, she purposes my death.
Phil. Why do you fright me with it? 'Tis in your brother's power to let us 'scape, And then you run no danger.
Lys. True, I may; But then my head must pay the forfeit of it.