University of Virginia Library

SCÆNA 5.

K.
So riseth Phæbus from the gloomy night,
(While pale-fac't Dian maketh hast to hide
Her borrowed glory in some neighbouring cloud,
Envying the beauty of the new-born day)
When darkness crouds into the other world.
Madam, Why kneel you?
She kneels.
You, at whose name Monarchs themselves might tremble,
And mortals bow with reverence great as they pay to Altars:
Scepters should break in peeces and adore you;
At whose sight the Sun and Moon should blush themselves
To blood and darkness, and falling from their sphere
Brush the audacious world to Atomes, for daring
To behold a lustre so much greater then their own.

An.
Sir, give me leave to wonder
What sin I have committed which calling
Down the vengeance of the gods,
Hath made me author of all this blasphemy.
Sir, I beseech your Majesty if you are angry with your creature,
Speak some cruel word and blast me.
Scorn me not into the other world,
Where I have sins enow of my own to blush for,
And shall not need to dye his cheeks for other mens offences.

K.
Lady, though Parthian darts are not so sharp
As are those killing words, yet that breath which
Utters them, is sweeter then the morning dew.
Ile be dumb, for praises cannot adde, but rather
Diminish Andromana's worth.

An.
I wonder now no longer at this language,
'Tis such as Kings are bred in;
But I beseech you Sir, if there be ought
You will command your servant, if Andromana
Must do or sufer any thing for great Euphorbas,
Lay by your self a minute, and remember
A Merchant's wife must hear you.

K.
Your husband Leon's dead, I hear Lady.
She weeps.
Nay spare those Pearls, Madam, cast not away
Such treasure upon the memory of one
Who, if the best of men, deserves them not.
Come, come, forget these sorrows Lady,
And wear not mourning weeds before the world's destruction;
Hide not those fair eyes, whose splendor would enrich
Our Court:
Madam, though none there be in Court
Can merit such a beauty, yet I my self
Have taken pains to search a husband for you;
What think you of my self?

An.
Great Sir, your care is like your self, all noble,
But suits with me no better
Then Phælus horses did with Phaeton,
Ruin'd the world and him: first, Sir,
You do debase you self to honour her, whose worth
Is less considerable then Lovers oaths:
My husband's ashes are scarce cold yet,
And would your Majesty have me forsake my honour,
And his memory so soon?
I have not payd oblations due to his ashes yet.

K.
You complement away the worth we know you have Andromana,
What say you to the Prince?

An.
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.

K.
But do'st think him worthy Andromana?

An.
O heavens! Is Jove worth heaven,
Or doth the Sun deserve to be a light
To all the world, can vertue deserve honour?
Or labour, riches: Can Gods merit Altars?
It might have been a puzling question
To them whose ears have not been blest with Plangus worth.
But this 'tis so below him.

K.
But say he loves thee:

An.
I dare not say so:
For when I think a Prince pretends to such poor things
As I am, I feel an Ice run through my veines,
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 against an armed ravisher.

K.
These things may be expected Lady, I confess
From blood that boyls in flames hot as the Sun
In scorching Libra, or sturdy Hercules
When he unmayden'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 vertue, and payes
His vowes to't, you should have other hopes.
Plangus is young, a Souldier, and by consequence
Something which youth excuses. But Ephorbas
Hath left those toyes behinde him when he shook off his youth.

And.
Sir, Now my fears are out.
O virtue! are there just powers which men adore,
And throw away their prayers upon,
That lend their eyes to humane 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 Theam of wonder to all neighbour Nations;
Pray help me to him, I would see that Angel;
The Kingdom's honour, and good men's Sanctuary.
But if you are the man, whom I have pray'd for
Oftner then I have slept; pray Sir, belye not
A vertue which I have hitherto admired.

K.
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 grayness, I vow my Scepter,
Throne, Kingdome, and my self are thine;
Tha'rt fit to be a Queen.

She starts back.
An.
A Queen! Sir, have your subjects anger'd you?
Have they rebell'd, or done some sin that wants a name?
Ile cleave to th'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 blinde my eyes with throwing gold befor'um,
Or set me up so high on the steep' pinacle
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 binde up bleeding reputation:
I did never hear that physick could afford
A remedy for a wounded honour.

Ep.
Th'art a Fool, Andromana.
You must be mine,
Consider on't.

An.
Sir, you may command your vassail,

K:
That's kindely said.

And.
But—I humbly take my leave,
Goodness protect you.