University of Virginia Library

SCENA PRIMA.

The Duke, Jacinta, in Climenes Garden.
Iacinta.
This is the Garden, Sir, where presently
My mistresse comes to walke her melancholie:
The griefe she taketh for her Lovers losse,
And her decayed health distracts her judgment;
Although the danger of her maladie
Be great, she walkes, and would even fly herselfe.
Be you assur'd her griefes will suddenlie
Conduct her here to weep her sad misfortunes,
And you may see her without witnesses,
And without trouble, if your Highnes please
To fetch a turne or two in this close Alley.

Duke.
Thy care augments my trouble, not my hope;
I burne, and feare to see her equallie:
I burne to see her when I represent
Vnto my amourous soule a charming Image
With all its beauties, and I feare to see her,
When my sad fancie represents unto me
The rigour of those faire offended eyes:
Tis an undoubted truth, I feare to see
That faire afflicted one to reproach me
The evills wherin my flame hath plunged her,
To say that hatred is the onelie fruite
Of my addresses, and that with my Rivall
My spirit is destroy'd.

Iacinta.
Your Highnesse, Sir
Should be prepar'd against the bloody taunts
Of a beblubbered Mistresse: to speak truelie,
And not to flatter you, I cannot see
The least hope that she will be wrought to love you
By this sweet way you take; I should advise you
Vnto another course, make use of force,
Where kindnes cannot work; ravish a good,
Which is denyed to you; take her hence,
Who is so foolish and so rigourous,
And force her to be happie gainst her will.

Duke.
How, take her hence by force? oh no, I cannot
Consent unto it, force can never be
Compatible with love, I would be lov'd
Without constraint, and cherish'd without feare.
So farre would her disdaine be by this meanes
From ceasing, that it would take deeper roote,
As having juster ground to propagate.

Iacinta.
Your reasons are not altogeither lawfull;
Our Sex, Sir, hath strang maximes, oftentimes
It feeles not what it doth expresse, and seldome
Loveth Deaths fatall wracks, after a fortune
Of such a nature, love in womans heart
Turnes unto griefe, and that griefe vanisheth:
Her oaths and cries are of no consequence,
Her passion dies, when th'object is no more.
Perhaps, Climene at this verie hower,
Feeles that ambition from loves ashes springs
Within her heart, and that she is prepar'd,
In spight of her just mourning to proferre
The glorious possessour of a throne
Before the sad inhabitant of a tomb.
And, possibly, wearied with her affliction,
She would be forced to embrace your love.

Duke.
To take her hence, and force her unto marriage,
Are the last meanes which I will try; before
I use towards her the least violence,
I'le see her.

Iacinta.
Sir, she comes there.

Duke.
How she studies,
And how her slow uncertaine paees speak
The violent troubles of her spirit, her palenes
Depaints her griefe.

Climene.
Leave me alone, and passe
Into that alley.