Pol. How should that be? Speak, man.
Ros. Why thus, my lord?
You know the law speaks death to any man
That steals an heir without her friend's consent:
Thus must he do, his love will prompt him to it.
For he can never hope by your consent
To marry her; and she, 'tis like, will give
Consent, for women's love is violent:
Then mark their passage, you shall easily find
How to surprise them at your will, my lord.
Pol. Thou art my oracle, dear Roscio.
Enter Psectas.
Here's Psectas come again. How now, what news?
Psec. My lord, they both are coming; please you withdraw,
You shall both hear and see what you desire.
Enter Philocles and Leucothoë.
Leu. Y' are welcome, noble sir; and, did my power
Answer my love, your visitation
Should be more free, and your deserved welcome
Express'd in better fashion.
Phil. Best of ladies,
It is so well, so excellently well,
Coming from your wish'd love, my barren thanks,
Want language for't! there lies in your fair looks
More entertainment than in all the pomp
That the vain Persian ever taught the world.
Your presence is the welcome I expected,
That makes it perfect.