Art. Why, would it be kindly done to show
My eyes your blood?
Duke. Yes, far more kind than live, and show
Thy heart no love. O Artabella, that thou wert
My sister!
Nothing but brother's love were then
Thy due; and I could richly pay thee in
That coin, a million more than ever brother did.
Art. Wou'd nature then had made me so, or else
Had given me never a heart.
Duke. What wou'dst
Thou have me do, poor Artabella?
Art. Nothing
But love me, sir.
Duke. See, what thou doest ask
A man, a god wou'd do; and yet I can't;
'Tis not thy want of beauty, but my fate.
Angels themselves, to look upon thy face,
Wou'd take a journey twice a day from heaven.
Art. If you would come, though far a shorter way,
You shou'd be much more welcome.
Duke. Sweet tongue, lie still, offer no more such love,
As gods themselves to have wou'd think a bliss,
Since all thy kindness does but wound my heart,
To see thine shipwreck'd in a sea of love,
And cannot give it harbour in my breast.
Art. Sir, let me beg one thing of you then.