Leo. Yes, my lord, what business?
'Tis somewhat, sure, of weighty consequence,
That brings you here so often, and unsent for.
Bert. 'Tis what I feared; her words are cold enough,
To freeze a man to death. [Aside.]—May I presume
To speak, and to complain?
Leo. They, who complain to princes, think them tame:
432 What bull dares bellow, or what sheep dares bleat,
Within the lion's den?
Bert. Yet men are suffered to put heaven in mind
Of promised blessings; for they then are debts.
Leo. My lord, heaven knows its own time when to give;
But you, it seems, charge me with breach of faith!
Bert. I hope I need not, madam;
But as, when men in sickness lingering lie,
They count the tedious hours by months and years,—
So, every day deferred, to dying lovers,
Is a whole age of pain!
Leo. What if I ne'er consent to make you mine?
My father's promise ties me not to time;
And bonds, without a date, they say, are void.
Bert. Far be it from me to believe you bound;
Love is the freest motion of our minds:
O could you see into my secret soul,
There might you read your own dominion doubled,
Both as a queen and mistress. If you leave me,
Know I can die, but dare not be displeased.
Leo. Sure you affect stupidity, my lord;
Or give me cause to think, that, when you lost
Three battles to the Moors, you coldly stood
As unconcerned as now.
Bert. I did my best;
Fate was not in my power.