Mass. With mine! no, Scipio;
Libya hath poison, asps, knives, and too much earth
To make one grave. With mine! Not; she can die.
Scipio, with mine! Jove, say it, thou dost lie.
Sci. Temperance be Scipio’s honour.
Læ. Cease your strife,
She is a woman.
Mass. But she is my wife. 50
Læ. And yet she is no god.
Mass. And yet she’s more:
I do not praise gods’ goodness, but adore;
Gods cannot fall, and for their constant goodness
(Which is necessited) they have a crown
Of never-ending pleasures; but faint man
(Framed to have his weakness made the heavens’ glory),
If he with steady virtue holds all siege
That power, that speech, that pleasure, that full sweets,
A world of greatness can assail him with,
Having no pay but self-wept misery, 60
A[352] beggar’s treasure-heap,—that man I’ll praise
Above the gods.
Sci. The Libyan speaks bold sense.
Mass. By that by which all is, proportion,
I speak with thought.
Sci. No more.