Imo. Will my lord fay fo?
Iach. 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.
Iach. 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
Imo. What do you pity, Sir?
Iach. Two creatures heartily.
Imo. Am I one, Sir?
You look on me; what wreck difcern you in me Deferves your pity?
Iach. Lamentable! what
To hide me from the radiant fun, and folace 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
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.
Imo. You do feem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you
(Since doubting things go ill, often hurt more Than to be fure they do; for certainties Or are paft remedies, or timely knowing, The remedy then born;) discover to me What both you spur and stop.
To bath my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whofe very touch would force the feeler's foul To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes pris'ner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; fhould I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips, as common as the stairs That mount the capitol? join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falfhood, as with labour? Then glad my self by peeping in an eye Base and unlustrious as the fmoaky light That's fed with stinking tallow? it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter fuch revolt.
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.
Iach. O dearest foul! your cause doth strike my heart With pity, that doth make me fick. A lady
So fair, and fastned to an empery,
Would make the great'st king double! to be partner'd 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 rottenefs lends nature! fuch boyl'd stuff As well might poifon poison! Be reveng❜d, Or fhe that bore you was no Queen, and you Recoil from your great stock.
How should I be reveng'd, if this be true? As I have fuch a heart, that both mine ears Must not in hafte abuse; if it be true, How fhall I be reveng❜d?
Iach. Should he make me
Live like Diana's prieft, 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 fure.
Imo. What ho, Pifanio!
Iach. 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 fuch an end thou seek'ft, as base, as strange: Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far From thy report, as thou from honour; and Sollicit❜ft here a lady, that disdains
Thee, and the devil alike. What ho, Pifanio! The king my father fhall be made acquainted Of thy affault; if he shall think it fit, A fawcy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish 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! Iach. O happy Leonatus, I may fay, The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deferves thy truft, and thy most perfect goodness
Her affur'd credit! bleffed live you long, A lady to the worthieft Sir, that ever
Country call'd 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, fuch a holy witch, That he inchants focieties into him: Half all mens hearts are his.
Imo. You make amends.
Iach. He fits 'mongst men like a descended god; He hath a kind of honour fets him off, More than a mortal feeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment, In the election of a Sir, fo 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, chafflefs. Pray, your pardon. Imo. All's well, Sir; take my pow'r i'th' court for yours. Iach. My humble thanks; I had almost forgot T' intreat your grace but in a small request,
of moment too, for it concerns
Your lord; my felf, and other noble friends Are partners in the business.
Iach. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord, (Beft feather of our wing,) have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor:
Which I, the factor for the reft, have done In France; 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels
Of rich and exquifite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in fafe ftowage: may it please you To take them in protection.
And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath int'reft 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.
Iach. Yes, I beseech you: or I shall short my word
By length'ning my return. From Gallia,
I croft the feas on purpose, and on promise
To fee your grace.
Imo. I thank you for your pains;
But not away to-morrow?
Iach. I muft, madam.
Therefore I shall befeech 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.
Send your trunk to me, it shall be safe kept, And truly yielded you: You're very welcome.
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