Asc. Your hand on that. The down on the swan's bosom,
[Kisses and holds it.
Not white and soft as this: here's such a dew
As drops from bounteous heaven in the morning,
To make the shadowy bank pregnant with violets.
Queen. My lord!
Asc. I kiss'd it, and the Phœnix seem'd
(The last of the whole race) to yield a perfume
More sweet than all his dying ancestors
Breath'd from their funeral piles. O, shrink not back!
My life is so concomitant with love,
That if you frown on either, both expire,
And I must part for ever hence.
Queen. How strange appears this ecstasy! My lord, I fear
Your brain feels some disturbance: if I cause it,
I will remove the object.
Asc. Pardon, madam,
The error of my fancy (which oft seems
To see things absent), if my tongue did utter
What misbecame your ear; and do not forfeit
Your servant to perpetual misery,
For want of a short patience.
Queen. No, my lord;
I have the memory of your great deeds
Engrav'd so deep, no error can have power
To raze them from a due respect. You begg'd
To have a pardon: speak th' offender's name.
Asc. Th' offender's name is Love; his crime high treason;
A plot, how to surprise and wound your heart:
To this conspirator I have given harbour,
And vow'd to beg your mercy for him.
Queen. How!