University of Virginia Library

SCEN. II.

Heraclius, Pulcheria.
HERAC.
Oh Heavens! What good Angel brings you to me?

PULC.
Phocas, who of your birth resolv'd would be,
And hopes by me he may the secret know;
He's cunning, and the likeliest waies does go.

HERAC:
If I were sure, how could I then denie,
What my soul loves in all to satisfie?

PULC:
If I did know it, he should never do;
I'ld die my self, if so I could save you.

HERAC:
Do not, Pulcheria, do not weep for me:
How gladly would I die so to save thee?
But 'tis in vain to hope that I should die,
I cannot move his hate, though all means trie:
I am not so much as a Pris'ner made,
The least affront to do me he's affraid,
Which gives some fears, makes me suspect my fate,
That I am Son to him whom all men hate.

PULC.
Your fears and doubts beget much fear in me,
Canst thou, Oh Love, then my dishonour be?
A Son of Phocas in my Love claim part,
Yet he alive? I'le first tear out my heart.

HERAC:
Worth of it self, where e're it be does live,
And though our Parents some addition give;
It were unjust true merit to denie,
Since Birth is not our choice, but Destinie.

PULC.
In one of you two I a Brother find,
Nay, to that int'rest you do both pretend;
Your state's so doubtful, you may well believe,
That as I both do love, for both I grieve;
Yet am not without hope; as I came here
Great Troops were seen the Pallace to draw near,
And Exuperius 'gainst them drew his force:
Our fortunes may be better, cannot worse.