And. I say he is the prince, and great Ephorbas' son;
He's Plangus: and if you think there yet remains
A title that can be either better or greater,
I think him worthy of it.
King. But dost [thou] think him worthy Andromana?
And. O heavens! Is Jove worth heav'n,
Or doth the sun deserve to be a light
To all the world? Can virtue deserve honour,
Or labour riches? Can gods merit altars?
It might have been a puzzling question
To them whose ears have not been bless'd
With Plangus' worth. But this is so below him——
King. But say he loves thee?
And. I dare not say so:
For when I think a prince pretends to such poor things
As I am, I feel an ice runs through my veins,
And my blood curdles into flakes of snow,
And bids me fear him—not with an awe or reverence,
But as a spotted sinful thing, which is
The worse for being great. 'Tis such a fear,
As I should conceive 'gainst an armed ravisher.
King. These things may be expected, lady, I confess,
From blood that boils in flames hot as the sun
In scorching Libra, or sturdy Hercules,
When he unmaiden'd fifty in one night;
But from a man whose years have tam'd those vices,
Whose love is dotage and not lust,
Who doth adore a handsome virtue, and pays
His vows to't, you should have other hopes.
Plangus is young, a soldier, and by consequence
Something which youth excuses. But Ephorbas
Hath left these toys behind him, when he shook off
His youth.
And. Sir, now my fears are out. O virtue!
Are there just pow'rs which men adore, and throw
Away their pray'rs upon, that lend their eyes
To human actions? or was the name of heaven
Invented to still petty sinners?
Sir, sure, I am mistaken,
You are not great Ephorbas, sir, whose virtue
Is a theme of wonder to all neighbour nations;
Pray help me to him, I would see that angel;
The kingdom's honour and [all] good men's sanctuary.
But if you are the man, whom I have pray'd for
Oft'ner than I have slept; pray, sir, belie not
A virtue which I've hitherto admired.
King.I see
You are a stranger, lady—give me leave
To say so—to Ephorbas;
But if a lady of thy melting years
Can love this greyness, I vow my sceptre,
Throne, kingdom, and myself are thine;
Thou'rt fit to be a queen.
[She starts back.
And. A queen! sir, have your subjects anger'd you?
Have they rebell'd, or done some sin that wants
A name? I'll cleave to the pavement, till I have begg'd
A vengeance great as their crime; but this
You mention is a punishment, which your subjects
Must study years to curse you for; no sin
Deserves it. You would blind my eyes with throwing gold
Before 'em,
Or set me up so high on the steep pinnacle
Of honour's temple, that you would have me not be
Able to look down on my own simplicity.
You can create me great, I know, sir,
But good you cannot. You might compel,
Entice me too, perhaps, to sin. But
Can you allay a gnawing conscience,
Or bind up bleeding reputation?
I did never hear that physic could afford
A remedy for a wounded honour.