Gio. Fear, to the breast of women; build
Thy throne on their soft hearts; mine must not be
Thy slave.—[Aside.] Your pleasure, madam?
Evad. I have a question must be directly answer'd;
No excuse, but from thy heart a truth.
Gio. Command me, madam; were it a secret,
On whose hinges hung the casements of my life,
Yet your command shall be obey'd to the least
Scruple.
Evad. I take your word:
My aged nurse tells me you love her:
Answer; is't a truth?
Gio. She's jealous, I'll try;
As oracle.
Evad. Ha!
Gio. 'Tis so, I'll further; I love her, madam,
With as rich a flame as anchorites
Do saints they offer prayers unto.
I hug her memory as I would embrace
The breath of Jove when it pronounced me
Happy, or prophet that should speak my
After-life great, even with adoration deified.
Evad. My life, like to a bubble i' th' air,
Dissolv'd by some uncharitable wind,
Denies my body warmth: your breath
Has made me nothing.
[She faints.