Mar. Not all so soon, dear brother; what, if a woman
Now should turn Æsculapius, and restore
This dumb Hippolitus? Nay, do not look strange,
I dare avow and undertake the cure.
Epire. You, sister! are you in your wits?
Mar. Faith, of the outside of them, brother; yet a woman's tongue,
Whose burthen still is superfluity,
May lend a man an age's complement.
Cyp. Madam, I would not have you, with the lark,
Play yourself into dare-net;[177] this great cure,
I fear, is far beyond your physic's help.
Mar. My lord, you know not how Apollo loves me;
I have been thought as fair as Oenon was,
And dare be bold to claim this miracle.
Cyp. Mariana, attend;
Glory and ruin compass thee about.
This hand shall raise thee to a golden throne,
And grace thee with all styles of dignity:
This cast thee down
Lower than life's misfortune, and overwhelm
Thy beauties with thy grave. Perform—be great:
Fail, and be worse than worst calamity.
Queen. Stay, gentle friend, my love doth bid thee stay;
Attempt not, and be safe from misery.
Epire. Sister, you shall not grasp with mischief thus;
My blood doth challenge interest in your ill,
And I conjure you from this desperateness.
Mar. Brother, content yourself, words but augment our strife;
I will perform, or else my pawn's my life.
Cyp. Proceed, fair virgin.