 | The Royall Slave |  |
Sce. 5.
As they carry out the Ladyes, Cratander meets them.Crat.
Yee Villaines hold.
What is the matter? why this violence?
Leoc.
A little Love-sport only; we were arguing
Pro, and Con out of Plato, and are now
Going to practise his Philosophy.
Arie.
What they stile Love-sport only, and misname
An arguing out of Plato, would have prov'd
A true and downe-right Rape, if that your presence
Had not become our Rescue.
Wicked Villaines,
That in your miseries can't forget your vices,
Acting those crimes to day, which e're the Sun
Thrice set, will elsewhere be your Torture. Cannot
The chayne and hunger kill those seedes of evill,
But even in the midst of your misfortunes,
Your sports must be the robbing of faire honour.
And Rapes your Recreations? which, an't please
The Gods, you call Philosophy. Leave the place;
Infection's busie where you breath; the next
Attempt installs you in the Dungeon.
[Ex. 4. Slaves.
Mand.
Most worthy Sir, your Noblenesse hath showne
A minde beyond your fortune: though it be not
Reall as we could wish it, yet beleeve it
You hold a perfect Royalty in the hearts
Of those, whose honours you have now preserv'd.
Crat.
I owe this duty to your vertues Madam.
[Ex. Mand. Arie.
These Slaves must be repress'd; the giddy People
Are ready to transpose all crimes upon
Him that should moderate them; so perhaps
Their faults might be accounted mine. Besides
Snares are laid close in every path for me;
And if a King but stumble, 'tis a Precipice:
When all eyes see't, a blemish is a Monster.
Pure vertue then, and thou faire honour, give me
Leave to cōtemplate on your Beauties; let
As he is musing, Atos. from above throwes him a gold chayne.
The strength of my Imagination dwell
Upon the sight of your Divinities.
What? more temptations yet? ha? whence? from whom?
The heav'ns I hope don't drop downe follies too:
No arme out of the cloudes! a chayne? why this
Is but an Exprobration of my late
Distressed fortune. 'Tis rich yet, and Royall;
I 'cann't be the wealth of any, but the Throne.
Fall out what will, I'le weare it, 'till I know
From whence it came; and if it prove a Mettle
That some foule drossy minde could not endure
With as much scorne and anger from my shoulders,
As now I doe receive't with admiration.
| The Royall Slave | |