Mon. A terme of some seven yeeres, Or peradventure halfe the number more.
Euph. For terme of life.
Mon. You have sworne, to be forsworne:
He was no well disposed friend of yours
That gave you consaile [sic] to forsweare such beautie.
Why, 'tis as if some traveiler had found
A mine of gold, and made no use of it.
For terme of life! Why, then die presently;
So shall your debt to nature be farre lesse,
Your tyranny over man's yeelding heart
Be lesse condemned. Oh, you were made for man,
And living without man to murder men.
If any creature be so fortunate
That lives in grace of your all gracious selfe,
Though I am well perswaded 'tis not I,
I vow by all the rites of vertuous love,
Be he ignoble, of the basest sort,
To please you, Madame, Ile renounce my suite
And be a speciall meane unto your father
To grant your hearts affection, though I die.
Euph. Now, Lord Montano, you come neere my heart,
And were I sure that you would keepe your word,
As I am sure you love me by your deedes,
I might perchance deliver you my thoughts.
Mon. By heaven and by your beauteous selfe I will.
Euph. Then, Constantine, come forth; behold thy friend.
Enter Constantine.
Con. Madame, what meane you, to reveale our love?
Mon. This is a very stubborne Gentleman. A Gentleman? a pesant! Saxonie, Affords not one more base.
Con. He does me wrong, That termes me meaner then a gentleman.