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_Enter_ Dion, Cleremont, _and_ Thrasiline.
_Thra_. Has the King sent for him to death?
_Di_. Yes, but the King must know, 'tis not in his power to war with Heaven.
_Cle_. We linger time; the King sent for _Philaster_ and the Headsman an hour ago.
_Thra_. Are all his wounds well?
_Di_. All they were but scratches; but the loss of bloud made him faint.
_Cle_. We dally Gentlemen.
_Thra_. Away.
_Di_. We'l scuffle hard before he perish.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ Philaster, Arethusa, _and_ Bellario.
_Are_. Nay dear _Philaster_ grieve not, we are well.
_Bell_. Nay good my Lord forbear, we are wondrous well.
_Phi_. Oh _Arethusa_! O _Bellario_! leave to be kind: I shall be shot from Heaven, as now from Earth, If you continue so; I am a man, False to a pair of the most trusty ones That ever earth bore, can it bear us all?
Forgive and leave me, but the King hath sent To call me to my death, Oh shew it me, And then forget me: And for thee my boy, I shall deliver words will mollifie The hearts of beasts, to spare thy innocence.
_Bell_. Alas my Lord, my life is not a thing Worthy your n.o.ble thoughts; 'tis not a life, 'Tis but a piece of child-hood thrown away: Should I out-live, I shall then out-live Vertue and honour. And when that day comes, If ever I should close these eyes but once, May I live spotted for my perjury, And waste my limbs to nothing.
_Are_. And I (the woful'st maid as ever was, Forc'd with my hands to bring my Lord to death) Do by the honour of a Virgin swear, To tell no hours beyond it.
_Phi_. Make me not hated so.
_Are_. Come from this prison, all joyful to our deaths.
_Phi_. People will tear me when they find you true To such a wretch as I; I shall die loath'd.
Injoy your Kingdoms peaceably, whil'st I For ever sleep forgotten with my faults, Every just servant, every maid in love Will have a piece of me if you be true.
_Are_. My dear Lord say not so.
_Bell_. A piece of you?
He was not born of women that can cut it and look on.
_Phi_. Take me in tears betwixt you, For my heart will break with shame and sorrow.
_Are_. Why 'tis well.
_Bell_. Lament no more.
_Phi_. What would you have done If you had wrong'd me basely, and had found My life no price, compar'd to yours? For love Sirs, Deal with me truly.
_Bell_. 'Twas mistaken, Sir.
_Phi_. Why if it were?
_Bell_. Then Sir we would have ask'd you pardon.
_Phi_. And have hope to enjoy it?
_Are_. Injoy it? I.
_Phi_. Would you indeed? be plain.
_Bell_. We would my Lord.
_Phi_. Forgive me then.
_Are_. So, so.
_Bell_. 'Tis as it should be now.
_Phi_. Lead to my death.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ King, Dion, Cleremont, _and_ Thrasiline.
_King_. Gentlemen, who saw the Prince?
_Cle_. So please you Sir, he's gone to see the City, And the new Platform, with some Gentlemen Attending on him.
_King_. Is the Princess ready To bring her prisoner out?
_Thra_. She waits your Grace.
_King_. Tell her we stay.
_Di_. King, you may be deceiv'd yet: The head you aim at cost more setting on Than to be lost so slightly: If it must off Like a wild overflow, that soops before him A golden Stack, and with it shakes down Bridges, Cracks the strong hearts of _Pines_, whose Cable roots Held out a thousand Storms, a thousand Thunders, And so made mightier, takes whole Villages Upon his back, and in that heat of pride, Charges strong Towns, Towers, Castles, Palaces, And layes them desolate: so shall thy head, Thy n.o.ble head, bury the lives of thousands That must bleed with thee like a sacrifice, In thy red ruines.
_Enter_ Phil. Are. _and_ Bell, _in a Robe and Garland_.
_King_. How now, what Mask is this?
_Bell_. Right Royal Sir, I should Sing you an Epithalamium of these lovers, But having lost my best ayres with my fortunes, And wanting a celestial Harp to strike This blessed union on; thus in glad story I give you all. These two fair Cedar-branches, The n.o.blest of the Mountain, where they grew Straightest and tallest, under whose still shades The worthier beasts have made their layers, and slept Free from the _Syrian_ Star, and the fell Thunder-stroke, Free from the Clouds, when they were big with humour, And delivered in thousand spouts, their issues to the earth: O there was none but silent quiet there!
Till never pleas'd fortune shot up shrubs, Base under brambles to divorce these branches; And for a while they did so, and did raign Over the Mountain, and choakt up his beauty With Brakes, rude Thornes and Thistles, till thy Sun Scorcht them even to the roots, and dried them there: And now a gentle gale hath blown again That made these branches meet, and twine together, Never to be divided: The G.o.d that sings His holy numbers over marriage beds, Hath knit their n.o.ble hearts, and here they stand Your Children mighty King, and I have done.
_King_. How, how?
