Of fea and land, which can diftinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twinn'd stones
Upon the number'd beach? and can we not
Partition make with fpectacles fo precious
'Twixt fair and foul?

Imo.

What makes your

admiration?

Iach. It cannot be i' the eye; for apes and monkeys,
'Twixt two fuch fhes, would chatter this way, and
Contemn with mowes the other: Nor i'the judgement;
For idiots, in this cafe of favour, would
Be wifely definite: Nor i'the appetite;
Sluttery, to fuch neat excellence oppos'd,
Should make defire vomit emptiness,
Not fo allur'd to feed.

Imo. What is the matter, trow?
Iach.

(That fatiate yet unfatisfied defire,

The cloyed will,

That tub both fill'd and running,) ravening first
The lamb, longs after for the garbage.

Imo.

Thus raps you? Are you well?

What, dear fir,

Iach. Thanks, madam; well:-'Befeech, you, fir, de

fire

My man's abode where I did leave him; he

[TO PISANIO.

Is ftrange and peevish.

Pif.

I was going, fir,

To give him welcome.

[Exit PISANIO.

Imo. Continues well my lord? His health, 'befeech you?

Jach. Well, madam.

Imo. Is he difpos'd to mirth? I hope, he is.

Iach. Exceeding pleasant;

So merry and fo gamefome:

The Briton reveller.

none a franger there

he is call'd

Imo.

When he was here,

He

He did incline to fadness; and oft-times

Not knowing why.

Iach.

I never faw him fad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one

An eminent monfieur, that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home: he furnaces

The thick fighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton
(Your lord, I mean,) laughs from's free lungs, cries, O!
Can my fides hold, to think, that man,-who knows

By hiftory, report, or his own proof,

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be,will his free hours languish for
Affured bondage?

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, heavens know, Some men are much to blame.

Imo.

Nct he, I hope.

Iach. Not he: But yet heaven's bounty towards him

might

Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;
In you,-which I count his, beyond all talents,
Whilft I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too.

Imo.

What do you pity, fir?

Iach. Two creatures, heartily.

Imo.

Am I one, fir?

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'the dungeon by a snuff?

Imo.

I pray you, fir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?
Iach. That others do,

I was about to fay, enjoy your--But
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 hurts more
Than to be fure they do: For certainties
Either are past remedies; or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born,) discover to me
What both you spur and stop.

Had I this cheek

Iach.
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whofe every touch, would force the feeler's foul
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prifoner 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 falfehood (falfehood, as
With labour;) then lie peeping in an eye,
Bafe and unluftrous as the fmoky light
'That's fed with stinking tallow; it were fit,
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter fuch revolt.

Imo.

Has forgot Britain.

Iach.

My lord, I fear,

And himself. Not I,

Inclin'd to this intelligence, pronounce

The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces

8

That,

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 faften'd 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 difeas'd ventures,
That play with all infirmities for gold

Which rottenness can lend nature! fuch boil'd stuff,
As well might poifon poifon! 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 should I be reveng'd?

Iach.

Should he make me

Live like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets;
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,

In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.
I dedicate myself to your fweet pleasure ;
More noble than that runagate to your bed;
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still clofe, as fure.

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 would'st have told this tale for virtue, not
For fuch an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange.

Thou

Thou wrong'ft a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honour; and
Solicit'ft here a lady, that difdains

Thee and the devil alike.-What ho, Pifanio!-
The king my father fhall be made acquainted
Of thy affault: if he fhall think it fit,
A faucy ftranger, 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 worthiest fir, that ever

Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only
For the moft worthieft fit! Give me your pardon.
I have fpoke 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 trueft manner'd; fuch a holy witch,

That he enchants focieties unto him:

Half all men's hearts are his.

Imo.

You make amends.

Iach. He fits 'mongst men, like a defcended god;
He hath a kind of honour fets him off,
More than a mortal feeming. Be not angry,
Moft mighty princefs, that I have adventur'd
To try your taking a false report; which hath
Honour'd with confirmation your great judgement
In the election of a fir fo rare,

Which you know, cannot err: The love I bear him

Made