Tho. I know not.
Phil. Bellamira, my lives joy!
Upon those pinnyons that support her flight
Hovers my heart; you beare away my soule.
Turne, turne agayn, and give this earthly frame
Essentiall power, which for thine absence dyes.
Thou art the sweet of sweets, the joy of joyes;
For thee was Philip borne. O turne agayne,
And Philip is the blessedest of men.
Lew. We are glad she's gone though we dissemble it. —Sonne, bridle this affection, cease these laments: She did not value them.
Nav. Lewis, she did, Till savage hate that shape disfigured.
Phil. O she was worthy to be Queene of heaven;
Her beauty, e're it suffred violence,
Was like the Sunne in his Meridian Throne,
Too splendent for weake eyes to gaze upon.
She was too bright before, till being hid
Under that envious cloud, it took the place
Of a darke ground to show a lovelyer face.
That Leprosie in her seemd perfect beauty
And she did guild her imperfections o're
With vertue, which no foule calumnious breath
Could ever soyle: true vertues dye is such
That malice cannot stayne nor envy tuch.
Then say not but her worth surmounts these woes.
Nav. She griev'd to tye you to a hated bed And therefore followed Burbon for revenge.
Phil. Bourbon! who names him? that same verball sound
Is like a thunderclap to Philips eares,
Frighting my very soule. Sure you said Burbon,
And to that prodegie you joynd revenge,
Revenge that like a shaddow followes him.
'Twas he that made me bankrout of all blisse,
Sude the divorce of that pure white and red
Which deckt my Bellamiraes lovely cheeks:
And shall he scape unpunisht?
Lew. Joyne your hands And all with us sweare vengeance on the Duke.
Phil. Not for the world: who prosecutes his hate On Burbon injures me; I am his foe, And none but I will work his overthrow.
Lew. What meanes our sonne?