BELLAMIRA

For Bellamiraes sake abstain from war. Gentle Philip. Here I am, who calls on Bellamira? The Duke of Burbon in my Tent so late? Where is my Guard? what Peter, Thomasin. Must I? You will not force me to it? Poison my face! o most inhumane wretch! Revenge more vile, then to abridge my life. What, Thomasin, what, brother Ferdinand: My kingly father: is there none that hears? Then Treason, treason, let that waken you: For capital is this offence to me. My Philip, o give leave to fly his sighed. Deny me, father, I would not see Prince Philip with this face. Oh let me leave the presence, gentle father, When Philip bids his Bellamira go. He came into my Tent at dead of night, And rubbed my face with and infectuous herb, Because I would not grant unto his love. I cried for help, but none did succour me. Marry with me? fetch me a looking glass, That I may see how sweet a Bride I am. O, I detest my self: Dear, hate me too: I am not to be married but to death. Though I were Empress of the spacious world, I de lay my self and Kingdom at thy feet. Live, noble Philip, joy some happier match: 'Tis my unworthiness makes me deny thee. Now, Bellamira, thou hast time to think Upon these troublous matters: should I suffer So brave a Gentleman as Philip is, To wed himself to my unworthy self, It would be counted virtue in the Prince; But I were worthy of a world of blame. No, Philip, no, thou shalt not wrong thine honour, Nor be impeached by Bellamiraes spots. In some disguise isle steal away to night, And never appear more in my Philips sighed. For Philips sake I have been martyred thus, And for his sake left King and Courtly life, To entertain a Pilgrim's painful habit. But on what strange adventure stays this Knight, Within this desolate forsaken wood? Is this my brother's Hearse? is this the place, Where I was shipwracked of a brother's name? O, let me spend a loving sighs for him, And sacrifice a sisters holy rites: For ever rest, sweet Ferdinand, in peace, Until thy body glorified from heaven, Become immortal by thy souls return. My Lord of Burbon, you presume too much On extremity of passion. Have I not answered many and idle letter, With full assurance that I cannot love? Have I not often, viva voice checked Your courtly kindness? frowned upon your smiles? Used you unkindly, all to wean your love? And do you still persever in your suit? I tell thee, Burbon, this bold partly of thine, To break into my Tent at dead of night, Deserves severe correction, and the more, Because it brings mine honour into question. I charge thee, as thou art a Gentleman, Betake thee to thine own Pavilion, And let this answer satisfy for all: Burbon, I cannot, nor I will not love thee. Burbon, o Burbon. So, sirrah, you may scoff my misery.