Her. As with a martyr, almost as much pleased with
Knowledge [of] what I dare to suffer for Eugenio,
As griev'd with my affliction. Fortune in her
Malice has given me yet a field to exercise
My faith and love to him I do adore.
Ire. Whilst you believe you have such cause to grieve,
All comforts seem importunate; but yet Prince Lysicles——
Her. But what! Forbear; I fear thy thoughts
Are poison, which thou wouldest fain infuse
To wound my constancy.
Ire. Sure, there is magic in that mystic name;
It could not else divide us from our reason:
What law, what faith, can bind us to remove
Love of ourselves and reverence to our parents?
You must forgive this; your Eugenio,
If he were here, must speak as I do now,
Granting his love be great as his profession,
For that must have reflection on your peace,
Not bargaining for his own happiness
With the price of the entire destruction
Of yours. What is't you fear? Report?
It will reproach your being obstinate.
Or breach of faith d'you fear?
The gods for you have made it not a fault,
Proposing such an object as Prince Lysicles.
Her. Who ever had a misery like mine?
All that are griev'd have yet the liberty
And ease of their complaints, or pitying friends;
I am excluded both; for my misfortune
Is mask'd with happiness, and if I grieve,
Such comforts as we give to those complain
Of being too rich, have I—smiles of contempt.
Ire. If it be thus, retire into your reason,
And for a time forget your passion.
D'you think that all the names of virtue shrink
Into the sound of constancy? Must this
Make you forget the debt that you do owe
Unto your father, friends, and to yourself;
Their house's honour and your happiness?
Is Lysicles less worthy than his rival?
Her. No more: their virtues, that exceed all other men's,
In them are equal.
Ire. But yet their fortune is not?
Her. It is confess'd. Nor ever any man
Had juster claim than he against her;
Rich in all virtues, that make men desir'd,
Her narrow hand excludes him, unwonted to bestow
Her treasure there, where an excess of merit
Would make her gifts but seem the pay of virtue,
Not favours of her partial love.
Enter Acanthe the Moor.