And all to end our strife.
Appius. Who art thou then? declare; be brief!
Conscience. Not flesh nor filthy lust I am,
But secret Conscience I,
Compell’d to cry with trembling soul,
At point near-hand to die.
Appius. Why, no disease hath me approach’d, no grief doth make me grudge,
But want of fair Virginia, whose beauty is my judge:
By her I live, by her I die, for her I joy or woe,
For her my soul doth sink or swim, for her I swear I go.