Mar. Vouchsafe me privacy: now Venus bespeed.
[She walks aside with Philocles.
Speak, gentle Philocles, thine oath's bond I untie,
And give thy vows a free enfranchisement;
Thy well-kept league hath show'd thy strength of truth,
And doth confirm me in thy[178] virtuousness:
Thy martyrdom and sufferance is too long,
And I restore it to new liberty.
Then speak, my Philocles, speak, gentle prince,
To her whose love respects and honours thee.
Cyp. How now, what virtue from thy charms?
Mar. No hope is left!
Dear Philocles, regard my miseries,
Untie that wilful let which holds in speech,
And make me happy through thy noble pity.
I see the face of mine ill-shaped contempt,
Where like with like hath quit most injury:
Then speak, my lord: utter one angel breath
To give me joy, and save me from strange death.
What, not a word! hath this small silence brought
An utter detestation to thy speech?
Wilt thou not hear, nor speak, nor pity me?
The gentle gods move thee to more remorse.
Cyp. What, wilt not be?
Fond maid, thou hast drawn affliction on thy head,
And thrall'd thyself to worse calamity:
Till morrow's sun thy incantations use,
But, then effectless, all hope's desperate:
Wert thou my bosom-love, thou di'st the death;
Best ease for madness is the loss of breath.
[Exeunt all but Philocles and Mariana.
Mar. O Philocles, I am no court's disgrace,
No city's prostitution, country's shame,
Nor one shall bring Troy's fire unto thy house:
Turn not away, hard-hearted myrmidon.
See, on my knees I'll follow thee in court,
And make the world condemn thy cruelty.
Yet if my tears may mollify thy heart,
Receive them as the flood of strangest tides;
Turn not thy face from her that doats on thee.
Love now hath made me subject to thy will,
And pale disdain hath ta'en revenge on me.
Behold, my knees[179] I'll wear upon this earth,
And fill this roof with lamentations.
What! dost thou smile I hath fury so much sway
As even to banish poor civility?
Then be thyself, and break thine itching spleen;
For I disdain thy ransom's victory.
Life, thou art weary brought: welcome my death,
Sweet, because wish'd-for, good, because my choice:]
Yet when I am dead, this of me shall be said,
A cruel prince murder'd a loving maid;
And after-ages to th' unborn shall tell
Thy hate, my love: thy envy and my hell.
Nay, do not speak, I charge thee: go, let nothing move thee,
Death is my glory, since thou wilt not love me. [Exeunt.
FOOTNOTES:
[162] [Edits., whole.]