Lys. You know, but will not own him.
Queen. Rebels ne'er want pretence to blacken kings, And this, it seems, is yours: Do you produce him, Or ne'er hereafter sully my renown With this aspersion:—Sure he dare not name him. [Aside.
Lys. I am too tender of your frame; or else—
Nor are things brought to that extremity:
Provided you accept my passion,
I'll gladly yield to think I was deceived.
Queen. Keep in your error still; I will not buy Your good opinion at so dear a rate, And my own misery, by being yours.
Lys. Do not provoke my patience by such scorns. For fear I break through all, and name him to you.
Queen. Hope not to fright me with your mighty looks; Know, I dare stem that tempest in your brow, And dash it back upon you.
Lys. Spite of prudence it will out:—'Tis Philocles!
Now judge, when I was made a property
To cheat myself, by making him your prisoner,
Whether I had not right to take up arms?
Queen. Poor envious wretch! Was this the venom that swelled up thy breast? My grace to Philocles mis-deemed my love!
Lys. Tis true, the gentleman is innocent; He ne'er sinned up so high, not in his wishes; You know he loves elsewhere.
Queen. You mean your sister.