Ant. Nay, fly not, you sweet,
I am not angry with you; indeed, I am not.
Do you know me?
Abs. Yes, sir, report hath given intelligence
You are the prince, the duke's son.
Ant. Both in one.
Abs. Report, sure,
Spoke but her native language: you are none of either.
Ant. How?
Abs. Were you the prince, you would not, sure, be slav'd
To your blood's passion. I do crave your pardon
For my rough language: truth hath a forehead free,
And in the tow'r of her integrity
Sits an unvanquish'd virgin. Can you imagine
'Twill appear possible you are the prince?
Why, when you set your foot first in this house,
You crush'd obedient duty unto death,
And even then fell from you your respect.
Honour is like a goodly old house, which
If we repair not still with virtue's hand,
Like a citadel being madly rais'd on sand,
It falls, is swallow'd, and not found [again].
Ant. If you rail upon the place, prythee,
How cam'st thou hither?
Abs. By treacherous intelligence. Honest men so
In the way ignorant, through thieves' purlieus go.
Are you [the] son to such a noble father?
[And would you] send him to's grave then,
Like a white almond-tree, full of glad days,
With joy that he begot so good a son.
O sir, methinks I see sweet majesty
Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows,
To see you in this place. This is a cave
Of scorpions and of dragons. O, turn back:
Toads here engender; 'tis the steam of death:
The very air poisons a good man's breath.
Ant. Within there!
Enter Timpania and Morbo.