Rod. You stay too long: Ile help to turne the key.
Discover her sitting in a chayre asleepe.
Bur. What do I see? the majesty of heaven
Sit in a mayden slumber on the earth?
What, is my Bellamira turnd a goddesse?
Within the table of her glorious face
Methinks the pure extraction of all beauty
Flowes in abundance to my love-sick eye.
O, Rodoricke, she is admirably fayre;
And sleeping if her beauty be so rare
How will her eyes inchaunt me if she wake.
Here, take the poyson; Ile not stayne her face
For all the treasure of the Westerne Island.
Rod. I see no such admired perfection.
Waken her, Burbon, and this loving charme,
Which now hath led your sences prisoner,
Will vanish, and her speach, full of reproofe,
Beget a new phantasma all of hate.
Thou wilt detest her when she shall deny thee.
Bur. Waken her Roderick, for I want the power.
Rod. I hope I am disguisde sufficiently That Bellamira cannot know my face.— Madam, fayre Bellamira!
Bel. Here I am: Who calls on Bellamira?
Bur. I, fayre love; The Duke of Burbon that doth honor thee.
Bel. The Duke of Burbon in my Tent so late! Where is my Gard? what, Peter, Thomasin!
Rod. Step to her and restrayne her lest she call: Ile be a looker on and be unknowne.