Lor. O, you have builded
A golden palace, strew'd with palm and roses,
To let me bleed to death in! How sweetly
You would have lost me. Abstemia, you have learn'd
The cunning fowler's art, who pleasantly
Whistles the bird into the snare. Good Heaven!
How you had strew'd the enticing top o' th' cup
With Arabian spices! But you had laid i' th' bottom
Ephesian aconite. You are love's hypocrite;
A rotten stick, in the night's darkness born,
And a fair poppy in a field of corn.
Abs. O sir! hear me—— [Kneels.
Lor. Away! I will no more
Look pearl in mud. O sly hypocrisy! Durst ye
But now die for me? Good Heaven! die for me!
The greatest act of pain, and dare not buy me
With a poor minute's pleasure?
Abs. No, sir, I dare not: there is little pain in death;
But a great death in very little pleasure.
I had rather, trust me, bear your death with honour,
Than buy your life with baseness. As I am expos'd
To th' greatest battery beauty ever fought,
O, blame me not if I be covetous
To come off with greatest honour. If I do this
To let you live, I kill your name, and give
My soul a wound; I crush her from sweet grace,
And change her angel's to a fury's face.
Try me no more, then; but, if you must bleed, boast,
To preserve honour, life is nobly lost.
Lor. Thou wealth worth more than kingdoms! I am now
Confirm'd past all suspicion, thou art far
Sweeter in thy sincere truth, than a sacrifice
Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds,[174]
That blow off from the coast, and cheer the sailor
With the sweet savour of their spices, want
The delight flows in thee. Look here, look here,
O man of wild desires! We will die the martyrs
Of marriage; and, 'stead of the loose ditties
With which they stab sweet modesty, and engender
Desires in the hot-room, thy noble story [To Abstemia.
Shall, laurel-like, crown honest ears with glory.
Ant. Murder, murder, murder!
Enter the three Dukes, with Lords.
Mil. Ha! who cries murder?
Phil. As y' are a gentleman, now be true to me.
Abs. Sir!