Moor. You then did send
The poison with the present I receiv'd?
Lys. Yes, I did;
And wonder you durst tempt my just revenge,
Unless you did believe, you could confine
The revelations of the best spirits
Your cursed charms betray'd first,
And then enforc'd to leave their happy seats,
To perfect the designs your malice labour'd in.
Moor. What unknown ways have the gods invented
To punish me! I feel a torment
No tyranny e'er parallell'd, yet must confess
An obligation to him that impos'd it.
Good gods! If I do bow under your wills,
Without repining at your sad decrees,
Grant this to recompense my martyrdom,
That he that is the author of my sufferings,
May never learn his error. Sir, if torments
E'er could expiate the crimes we have committed,
Mine might challenge your pardon and your pity:
I feel death entering me; love the memory
Of your Milesia, and forgive——
Ire. Help, help! She dies!
Lys. If it be possible, call life into her for some minutes, her full confession will absolve my justice.
Ire. Bring some water here, she does but swoon. So, chafe her temples——O heavens! What prodigy is here! Her blackness falls away! My lord, look on this miracle; doth not heaven instruct us in pity of her wrongs, that the opinions which prejudice her virtue, should thus be washed away with the black clouds that hide her purer form?
Her. Heaven hath some further ends in this than we
Can pierce. More water: she returns to life,
And all the blackness of her face is gone.
Ire. Pallas, Apollo, what may this portend?
My lord, have you not seen a face like this?
Lys. Yes, and horror seizeth me. Tis the idea
Of my Milesia. Impenetrable powers!
Deliver us in thunder your intents,
And exposition of this metamorphosis.
Her. She stirs