Plan. Lust, madam.
And. I know not, sir:
Your eloquence gave it that title then.
How many dangers walk'd I fearless through
To satisfy your pleasures, your very will—
Nay more, your word—nay, if I thought by sympathy
A thought of yours, that I imagin'd you
Might blush to speak, I made it straight my own,
And work'd and studied as much to put it into act,
As doth a gamester upon loss to compass money.
At last we were betray'd, sir, to your father's spies, who
Denied us afterwards those opportunities we stole
Before, befriended by my husband's ignorance.
Now was I brought to that which is the worst of ills,
A seeing, but not enjoying of that which I held dearest.
To see you daily, and to live without you,
Was a death many degrees beyond my own.
I knew the love was great, so great
I durst not own it. Nay more, I knew
It was noble too, so noble, I knew
My husband being dead, you would not stick
To ask your father's leave for public marriage.
Plan. Heaven and the gods can witness I intended it.
And. Nay, farther yet, I knew your father's love,
Which would not have denied you anything,
Would also have granted that.
Plan. Madam, you riddle strangely.
And. When I had
Forecast these easy possibilities, I yet
Foresaw one thing that crossed our designs—
That was a sense of honour I had in me.
Methought in honour I could not condescend
You should debase yourself so low. It pleas'd me
Better to be your mistress than your queen;
And stol'n embraces, without the scandal
Of a public eye, were sweeter than those
Which might bring upon me—for rising greatness
Is still envied—the rancour of the people,
And consequent distaste[93] against their prince.
Sir, now we may act safely what might have
Been less secure. Your father's name gives a protection——
Or, if that startle you, we'll call him husband!
Plan. Are you in earnest?
And. As serious as love can be.
Plan. Then I want words to tell you how I hate you:
I would sooner meet Megæra 'tween a pair of sheets.
And can you think I should have so small pity,
As to be false unto my father's bed?
That I lov'd you once, I confess with shame;
And that I should have done so still, had you
Preserv'd those flames, I think of now with horror.
But for those sins, and whatsoever else
I must repent, I shall no doubt have great
Occasion, when I shall see th' kingdom
Envelop'd in those swarms of plagues your sins
Call down, and feel a share of them myself.
For heaven's sake, madam! for my father's sake,
Nay, for my own, if that have any interest,
Learn now at last a virtue, that may make us
As happy as much as hitherto unfortunate,
And render your story to posterity so burnish'd
With your shining goodness, that their eyes may not
Perceive the error of your former years.
Perhaps I then shall have a reverence for you,
As great as any son hath for a father's wife.
You wonder, lady, to see me talk thus different
From what you saw me half an hour ago.
I look'd upon myself as one that had lost
A blessing. But heaven hath been happier to me;
For I am now so far from thinking you one,
That I look upon you as a plague no sin
Of good Ephorbas could deserve. But love
To you——
And. Sir!