Lys. Must that be argument of cruelty,
Which should be cause of pity? And will you
Assume the patronage of envious fortune,
By adding torments unto her affliction?
Must I be miserable in losing you,
Because the gods thought me unworthy her?
Did I so easily digest her death,
That I want pity, and am thought unworthy
Of all succeeding love? Witness my loss
Of joys; if sorrow could have kill'd me,
I had not lived to show your mercy.
Her. Protect me, virtue! [Aside.
Pardon me, my lord! I know your griefs
How great and just they are, and only meant
By mentioning Milesia to confess,
How much unworthy I am to succeed her
In your affection which, though you bent
As low as I durst raise myself to reach,
'Twere now impiety for me to grasp,
I being no more my own disposer.
Lys. Ha! what fate hath taken you from yourself?
Her. The Lord Ergasto's importunity;
Who, though at first no inclination
Of mine made me affect his vows,
Hath vanquish'd my determination.
I finding nothing in myself deserving
The constancy of his affection to me,
Besides my father's often urging me
To make my choice obeying[356] his commands,
And threat'ning misery if I declin'd the least—
Knowing his violent nature, I consented
To a contract 'twixt me and the Lord Ergasto.
Her. O, the prophecies of my just[357] fears, how true
My heart foretold you!
Madam, it cannot be you should affect
One that hath no desert but what you give,
By making him a part of you. My hopes,
Though always blasted, could not apprehend
A fear from him. I should be happy yet,
If any worthy love shadowed my shame
Of being refused by you.
Her. Give not my want of power to serve your grace,
The cruel title of refusing you.
Your merits are so great, you may assure yourself
Of all you can desire, that's possible
To grant, whom thousands worthier than myself
Would kneel to.
By my life, if my faith were not given, I would
Here offer up myself to be dispos'd by you.
Though no ambitious pride could flatter me,
You could descend to raise me to your height.
Lys. Must this be added to my former griefs
That, in the instant you profess to pity
What I must suffer in your loss—your virtue,
For which I [most] admire you, must exclude
My hopes of ever changing your resolves?
Yet let my vows gain thus much of you,
That for a month you will not marry him;
I know your father will not force you to't,
For he, not knowing what hath pass'd between you,
Consented to this visit.
Her. By all things holy, this I swear to do,
Though violent diseases should enclose me,
Till the priest join'd our hands; yet, if you please,
Let not my father know but he's the cause,
I dare not look upon the mighty blessing
Your love doth promise.
Lys. May I not know the reason?