Agrip. Your majesty fights with no mortal power.
Shame, and not conquest, hangs upon this strife.
O, touch me not, you add but pain to pain,
The more you cut, the more they grow again.
Linc. Is there no art to conjure down this scorn?
I ne’er knew physic yet against the horn.
Enter Cyprus.
Athelst. See, Prince of Cyprus, thy fair Agripyne
Hath turned her beauty to deformity.
Cypr. Then I defy thee, Love; vain hopes, adieu,
You have mocked me long; in scorn I’ll now mock you.
I came to see how the Lord Longaville
Was turned into a monster, and I find
An object, which both strikes me dumb and blind.
To-morrow should have been our marriage morn,
But now my bride is shame, thy bridegroom scorn.
tell me yet, is there no art, no charms,
No desperate physic for this desperate wound?
Athelst. All means are tried, but no means can be found.
Cypr. Then, England, farewell: hapless maid, thy stars,
Through spiteful influence set our hearts at wars.
I am enforced to leave thee, and resign
My love to grief.
Enter Orleans and Galloway.
Agrip. All grief to Agripyne.
Cypr. Adieu, I would say more, had I a tongue
Able to help his master: mighty king,
I humbly take my leave; to Cyprus I;
My father’s son must all such shame defy. [Exit.