Lys. Madam, you were not wont by a feign'd praise
To scorn those that admire you; or would you
Thus insinuate what I should be by telling
Me I am, what I must ever aim at?
Her. Were there proportion 'twixt our births, my lord,
'Twould ill become a virgin's mouth to utter,
How much you do deserve; that will excuse,
When I shall say our Greece ne'er saw your equal.
Lys. I did not think I ever could be mov'd
With my own praise; but now my happiness
So much depends, that you shall truly think
What now you utter of me; that I glory
My actions are thus favour'd by your judgment.
Her. We must forget our safeties and the gods,
Whose instrument you were of our deliverance,
When we are silent of the mighty debt
This kingdom owes your courage.
Lys. This declaration of your favouring me will plead
My pardon, if I do omit the ceremonial circumstance,
Which usually makes way for this great truth
I now must utter. Madam, I do love
Your virtues with that adoration,
That the all-seeing sun does not behold
A lady that I love with equal ardour.
Our friends, who have most power over us, both
Do second my desires of joining us
In the sacred tie of marriage.
Her. My lord, I thought at first how ill my words
Became a virgin; but give 'em the right sense:
They were design'd, which was to speak you truly,
Not with a flatt'ring ambition
They might engage you to the love of one
So far unequal. If I have ever gain'd
Anything on your goodness, I'll not lose it
By foolishly aspiring to that height
You must in honour dispossess me of,
When I was seated. Marry you, my lord!
The king, our neighbour princes, all good men
Must curse me as a stain to those great virtues
You're the single lord of. If you speak this to try
What easy conquest you can make of all
You faintly but pretend to, I'll confess
The weakness of our sex would be prouder
Only to have the shows of your affection,
Than real loves of any they can hope
With justice to attain to.
Lys. Whatever I deserve,
The gods have largely recompens'd my intent
Of doing virtuously, if it hath gain'd so much
Upon your goodness as to make a way
For my affection.
Her. My lord, I do not understand you.
Lys. Pardon me, dearest lady, if my words
Too boldly do deliver what my actions
And frequent services should first have smooth'd
The way they are to take. My happiness
So nearly is concern'd, you shall approve
Me for your servant, that I trembling haste,
To know what rigours or what joys expect me,
But ere you do begin to speak my fate,
Know whom you do condemn, or whom make happy:
One, that when misery had made so wretched,
That it ravished his desires to change,
Whose eyes were turned inward on his grief,
Pleas'd with no object but what caus'd their tears,
Your beauty only rais'd from his dark seat
Of circling sorrows, lighting me a hope
By you I might receive all happiness,
The gods have made, my heart capacious of.
Her. Good my lord, give me leave again to say,
I dare not understand you; you are too noble
To glory in the conquest of a heart
That ever hath admir'd you; and to think
You can so far forget your birth and virtue,
As to believe me fit to be your wife,
Were a presumption that swelling pride
Must be the father of, which never yet
My heart could be allied to. Continue, prince:
Be the example of a constant love,
And let not your Milesia's ashes shrink
With a new-piercing cold, which they will feel
I'th' instant that your heart shall be consenting
To any new affection; and give me leave to say,
Your mind can ne'er admit a noble love,
If it hath banish'd hers your memory.