Queen. My gracious lord, since no desert in me
Can merit your belief, nor that your eye
Can rightly judge my pure complexion:
Yet as your handmaid let me beg the right,
Due unto wretches from our country's laws.
Cyp. The tenor of the law you do demand?
Queen. That in the case of slander, where the proof
Proceeds as much from envy as from truth,
We are allow'd our champions to defend
Our innocence with a well-ordered sword.
Cyp. I look'd for this objection, and allow it;
Nor am I unprovided for your best
And strongest hope in any victory:
Lords, attend in my champion.
Here the noble-men go forth, and bring in the Duke of Epire like a combatant.
Queen. Will you, my lord, approve the king's assertion?
Epire. Madam, although against the nature of my spirit,
And my first duty bound to your allegiance,
Yet now compell'd by duty and by truth,
I must of force become your opposite.
Queen. Thou art no true Italian, nor true gentleman,
Thus to confound the glory of thy judgment.
Hath not that arm which now is arm'd against me—
That valour, spirit, judgment, and that worth,
Which only makes you worthy—stood t' approve
More than myself will challenge to my virtues?
And are you now basely turn'd retrograde?
Well, I perceive there's nought in you but spleen
And time's observance, still to hold the best—
Still I demand the law.
Cyp. And you shall have it in the amplest manner.
Sound, cornets.
Here the cornets sound thrice, and at the third sound enters Philocles, disguised like a combatant.