Cler. Well, I hope.
'Tis ten to one this lady oft hath seen you,
You never liv'd obscure in Syracuse,
Nor walk'd the streets unknown, and who can tell
What place you bear in her affections,
Lov'd or mislik'd? If bad, this letter sent
Will make her show her scorn: if otherwise,
Fear not a woman's wit: she'll find a time
To answer your kind letter, and express
What you desire she should; then send it boldly,
You have a fair mark there.
Phil. Cupid, guide my arm!
O, be as just, blind god, as thou art great!
And with that powerful hand, that golden shaft
This eye was[424] wounded, wound yon tender breast!
There is no salve but that, no cure for me.
[Throws.
Cler. See, what a wonder it strikes 'em in, how it should come.
Phil. She'll wonder more to see what man it comes from.
Cler. I like her well, she is not afraid to open it. She starts; stay, mark her action when she has read the letter.
She reads.
"Let it not wrong this letter, that it came
From one that trembled to subscribe his name,
Fearing your hate: O, let not hate descend,
Nor make you cruel to so vow'd a friend.
If you'll not promise love, grant but access,
And let me know my woes are past redress.
Be just, then, beauteous judge, and, like the laws,
Condemn me not till you have heard my cause;
Which, when you have, from those fair lips return
Either my life in love, or death in scorn.
Yours or not, Philocles."
Am I awake, or dream I? Is it true,
Or does my flattering fancy but suggest
What I most covet?
Psec. Madam, the words are there;
I'll swear it can be no illusion.
Leu. It is too good for truth.