Duke. To save that labour, see if you know that hand, and let that justify you. [Shows her letter.
Luc. What do I see! my ruin is inevitable.
Duke. You know you merit it:
You used me ill, and now are in my power.
Luc. But you, I hope, are much too noble to
Destroy the fame of a poor silly woman?
Duke. Then, in few words,—for I am bred a soldier,
And must speak plain,—it is your love I ask;
If you deny, this letter is produced;
You know the consequence.
Luc. I hope I do not;
For though there are appearances against me,
Enough to give you hope I durst not shun you,
Yet, could you see my heart, 'tis a white virgin-tablet,
On which no characters of earthly love
Were ever writ: And, 'twixt the prince and me,
If there were any criminal affection,
May heaven this minute—
Duke. Swear not; I believe you:
For, could I think my son had e'er enjoyed you,
I should not be his rival. Since he has not,
I may have so much kindness for myself,
To wish that happiness.
Luc. You ask me what I must not grant,
Nor, if I loved you, would: you know my vow of chastity.
Duke. Yet again that senseless argument?
The vows of chastity can ne'er be broken,
Where vows of secrecy are kept. Those I'll swear with you.
But 'tis enough at present, you know my resolution.
I would persuade, not force, you to my love;
And to that end I give you this night's respite.
Consider all, that you may fear or hope;
And think that on your grant, or your denial,
Depends a double welfare, yours and mine. [Exit.
Luc. A double ruin, rather, if I grant;
For what can I expect from such a father,
When such a son betrays me! Could I think,
Of all mankind, that Frederick would be base?
And, with the vanity of vulgar souls,
Betray a virgin's fame? One, who esteemed him,
And I much fear did more than barely so—
But I dare note examine myself farther, for fear of confessing to my own thoughts, a tenderness of which he is unworthy.