Ant. Purge my poor heart from defamation’s blot!
Poor heart, how like her virtuous self she speaks.— 90
Mellida, dear Mellida! it is Antonio:
Slink not away, ’tis thy Antonio.
Mel. How found you out, my lord? Alas! I know
’Tis easy in this age to find out woe.
I have a suit to you.
Ant. What is’t, dear soul?
Mel. Kill me; i’faith I’ll wink, not stir a jot.
For God sake kill me; in sooth, lovèd youth,
I am much injur’d; look, see how I creep.
I cannot wreak my wrong, but sigh and weep.
Ant. May I be cursèd, but I credit thee. 100
Mel. To-morrow I must die.
Ant. Alas, for what?
Mel. For loving thee. ’Tis true, my sweetest breast,
I must die falsely: so must thou, dear heart.
Nets are a-knitting to entrap thy life.
Thy father’s death must make a paradise
To my (I shame to call him) father. Tell me, sweet,
Shall I die thine? dost love me still, and still?
Ant. I do.
Mal. Then welcome heaven’s will.