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Imo. Will my lord say so?

lach. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter.
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman: but heav'n knows
Some men are much to blame.

Imo. Not he, I hope.

lach. Not he. But yet heav'n's bounty tow'rds him might
Be us’d more thankfully. In himself 'tis much;
In you, whom I count his beyond all talents,
Whilft I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.

Imo. What do you pity, Sir ?
Iach. Two creatures heartily.

Imo. Am I one, Sir ?
You look on me; what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity?

Iach. Lamentable! what
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'th' dungeon by a snuff?

Imo. I pray you, Sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?

lach. That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your ---- but
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on’t.

Imo. You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you
(Since doubting things go ill, often hurt more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Or are past remedies, or timely knowing,
The remedy then born;) discover to me
What both you spur and stop.


lach. Had I this cheek To bath my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose


touch would force the feeler's soul
To th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes pris’ner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, damnd then,
Slaver with lips, as common as the stairs
That mount the capitol ? join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly fallhood, as with labour ?
Then glad my self by peeping in an eye
Base and unlustrious as the smoaky light
That’s fed with stinking tallow? it were fit
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt,

Imo. My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.

lach. And himself. Not I
Inclin’d to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces
That from my mutest conscience, to my tongue,
Charms this report out.

Imo. Let me hear no more.

lach. O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady
So fair, and fastned to an empery,
Would make the great'st king double! to be partnerid
With tomboys, hir'd with that self-exhibition
Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd venters
To play with all infirmities for gold,
Which rotteness lends nature! such boyld stuff
As well might poison poison! Be reveng'd,
Or she that bore you was no Queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.


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Imo. Reveng'd!
How should I be reveng’d, if this be true?
As I have such a heart, that both mine ears
Must not in haste abuse; if it be true,
How shall I be reveng’d?

lach. Should he make me
Live like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets ?
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps
In your despight, upon your purse? revenge it!
I dedicate my self to your fweet pleasure,
More noble than that runagate to your bed,
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still close, as sure.

Imo. What ho, Pisanio!
lach. Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imo. Away, I do condemn mine ears, that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st, as base, as strange:
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honour; and
Sollicit'st here a lady, that disdains
Thee, and the devil alike. What ho, Pifanio! ----
The king my father shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault; if he shall think it fit,
A sawcy stranger in his court to mart
As in a Romisk stew, and to expound
His beastly mind to us; he hath a court
He little cares for, and a daughter whom
He not respects at all. What ho, Pifanio ! --

lach. O happy Leonatus, I may say,
The credit that thy lady hath of thee
Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness


Her assurd credit! blessed live you long,
A lady to the worthiest Sir, that ever
Country calld his; and you his mistress, only
For the most worthy fit. Give me your pardon.
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance
Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,
That which he is, new o'er: and he is one
The truest-manner'd, such a holy witch,
That he inchants societies into him:
Half all mens hearts are his.

Imo. You make amends.

lach. He sits ’mongst men like a descended god;
He hath a kind of honour sets him off,
More than a mortal feeming. Be not angry,
Most mighty Princess, that I have adventurd
To try your taking of a false report, which hath
Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment,
In the election of a Sir, so rare,
Which you know cannot err.

The love I bear him,
Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffess. Pray, your pardon.

Imo. All's well, Sir ; take my pow'r i'th coort for yours.

lach. My humble thanks; I had almost forgot T' intreat your grace but in a small request, And

yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; my self, and other noble friends Are partners in the business.

Imo. Pray what is’t?

lach. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord, (Best feather of our wing,) have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor: Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France ; 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels

Of rich and exquisite form, their values great ;
And I am something curious, being ftrange,
To have them in safe stowage: may it please you
To take them in protection.

Imo. Willingly;

mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath intrest in them, I will keep them In my bed-chamber.

lach. They are in a trunk
Attended by my men: I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must aboard to-morrow.

Imo. O no, no.

lach. Yes, I beseech you: or I shall short my word
By length’niog my return. From Gallia,
I crost the seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your grace.

Imo. I thank you for your pains;
But not away to-morrow?

lach. I must, madam.
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night.
I have out-stood my time, which is material
To th’ tender of our present.

Imo. I will write:
Send your trunk to me, it shall be safe kept,
And truly yielded you: You're very welcome.



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