Cleo. O my grieved soul!—
By whose command?
Timand. It seems, my lord your brother's,
For he's a looker-on: and it takes from
Honour'd Leosthenes to suffer it,
For his respect to you, whose name in vain
The grieved wretch loudly calls on.
Cleo. By Diana,
'Tis base in both; and to their teeth I'll tell them
That I am wrong'd in 't. [Going forth.
Timand. What will you do?
Cleo. In person
Visit and comfort him.
Timand. That will bring fuel
To the jealous fires which burn too hot already
In lord Leosthenes.
Cleo. Let them consume him!
I am mistress of myself. Where cruelty reigns,
There dwells nor love nor honour. [Exit.
Timand. So! it works.
Though hitherto I have run a desperate course
To serve my brother's purposes, now 'tis fit
Enter Leosthenes and Timagoras.
I study mine own ends. They come:—assist me
In these my undertakings, Love's great patron,
As my intents are honest!