Her. Dear Irene,
Our stars, whose influence doth govern us,
Are not malignant to us, but whilst we
Remain in this false earth. He that hath courage
To divest himself of that, removes with it
Their powers to hurt him; and injur'd Love,
Who sees that fortune would usurp his power,
I know will not be wanting. See, the lady
Enter Acanthe the Moor.
Comes! Madam, the excuse that justifies sick men
That send for their physician, must beg my pardon,
That did not visit you to have this honour.
Here you see a virgin that hath long stood
The mark of fortune, and now's so full of misery
That, though the gods resented what I suffer,
Yet I fear that they have plung'd me to extremes,
Exceed their own assistance.
Moor. Fear not their power.
Her. I do not; but their will to help me I must doubt;
For those that know no reason of their hate
Must fear it is perpetual.
And let the ensigns of their wrath fall on me,
If e'er by any willing act I have provok'd
Their justice. To you now, in whom 'tis said,
As in their oracle they speak, I come to know
What mighty growth of dangers are decreed me.
Moor. First, dearest lady, do not think my power
Great as my will to serve you; 'tis so weak
That, if you should rely on't, I shall seem
Cold in your service, when it does not answer
What is expected from it. All I know
Is but conjectured; for our stars incline,
Not force us in our actions. Let me observe your face.
Her. Do, and if yet you are not perfect in
Your mysteries, observe mine well; and when you meet
A face branded with such a line, conclude
It miserable: when an eye that doth
Resemble this, teach it to weep betimes,
That so being lost, it may not see those miseries
Must be its only object. [The Moor starts.
Are my misfortunes of that horrid shape
That the mere speculation doth affright
Those whose compassion only it concerns?
I, that must stand the strokes then, what defence
Shall I prepare against them? Yet a hope
That they be ripen'd now to fall on me,
Lightens a desperate joy to my dark soul:
For the last dart shall be embrac'd as remedy
To cure my former wounds.
Moor. It is not that;
I was surprised in considering I must
Partake of all your fortunes; for our ascendants
Threaten like danger to us both.
Her. Are then my miseries grown infectious too?
Must that be added? Pardon me, gentle lady; this
Sad crime I must account amongst my secret faults:
I meant no more but to communicate,
Not part my sorrows with you.
Moor. [O,] would you could; with what great willingness
Should I embrace a share of what afflicts you?
I'd haste to meet and ease you of your fears.
Now if to one, whose interest doth force her
To advance your hopes, you dare deliver
The cause of your disquiet, you shall find a closet,
If not a fort, to vindicate your fears.