Cyp. True, my Philocles, yet my recreant soul,
Slav'd to her beauty, would renounce all war,
And yield her right to love, did not thy spirit,
Mix'd with my longing, fortify these arms.
But I am now resolv'd, and this sad hour
Shall give an end to my distemperature.
Summon a parley.
Enter aloft the Queen OF Sicily, Mariana,[133] the Duke OF Epire, Alphonso, and Attendants.
Queen. What says our tyrant suitor, our disease in love,
That makes our thoughts a slave unto his sword:
What says my lord?
Cyp. Madam, attend me, this is my latest summons:
The many suns my sorrows have beheld,
And my sad nights of longings, all through hope
T' enjoy the joy of earth (your own dear self),
Are grown so infinite in length and weight,
That like to wearied Atlas I enforce
These wars, as Hercules, to bear my load:
Briefly, I must enjoy you, or else lose
The breath of life which to prevent, behold
My sword must be my Cupid, and with feather'd steel
Force pity from your breast. Your city's walls,
Chidden with my cannons, have set ope a path,
And boldly bid me enter: all your men of war,
Feebled with famine and a weary siege,
Take danger from mine actions: only yourself,
Strong in your will, oppose even destiny,
And like the giants' war offend the heavens.
Which to prevent, do but descend and give
Peace to my love-suit, and as o'ercome thereby
I'll yield myself your prisoner, and be drawn
A thrall in your triumphant victory.
If otherwise, behold these fatal swords
Shall ne'er be sheath'd till we be conquerors:
And, not respecting innocence nor sex,
The cries of infants, nor the prayers of age,
All things shall perish, till within my arms
I fold yourself, my thrall and conqueror.
Queen. Thou may'st be master of my body's tomb;
But for my soul and mind they are as free
As their creation, and with angel's wings
Can soar beyond thy reach: trust me, King of Cyprus,
Those coals the Roman Portia did devour
Are not burnt out, nor have th' Egyptian worms[134]
Yet lost their stings; steel holds his temper still,
And these are ransoms from captivity.
But art thou noble? hast thou one royal thought?
Cyp. Approve me by your question.
Queen. Then briefly thus:
To shun the great effusion of their bloods,
Who feel no touch in mine affections,
Dare you to single combat, two to two,
Refer your right in love?
Cyp. Who are your combatants? we love equality.
Queen. This is the first, the Epire duke, a man
Sprung from the line of famous Scanderbeg.
The next Alphonso, sprung from noble blood;
Who, laden with rich Lusitanian prize,
Hath rode through Syracuse twice in pomp.
Cyp. Their likings to the motion?