Org. Penthea, now

I tell you, you grow wanton in my sufferance;
Come, sweet, thou art mine.

Pen. Uncivil sir, forbear,

Or I can turn affection into vengeance;
Your reputation, if you value any,

Lies bleeding at my feet. Unworthy man,
If ever henceforth thou appear in language,
Message, or letter, to betray my frailty,
I'll call thy former protestations lust,

And curse my stars for forfeit of my judgment.
Go thou, fit only for disguise, and walks,
To hide thy shame; this once I spare thy life.
I laugh at mine own confidence; my sorrows
By thee are made inferior to my fortunes :
If ever thou didst harbour worthy love,
Dare not to answer. My good Genius guide me,
That I may never see thee more !-Go from me!

Org. I'll tear my veil of politic French off,

And stand up like a man resolved to do :-
Action, not words, shall show me.-Oh Penthea!

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[Exit. Pen. He sighed my name sure, as he parted from me; I fear I was too rough. Alas, poor gentleman! 150 He look'd not like the ruins of his youth, But like the ruins of those ruins. Honour, How much we fight with weakness to preserve thee! [Walks aside.

Enter Bassanes and Grausis.

Bass. Fie on thee! damn thee, rotten maggot, damn thee !

Sleep, sleep at court? and now? Aches, con-
vulsions,

Imposthumes, rheums, gouts, palsies, clog thy bones
A dozen years more yet!

Grau. Now you are in humours.

Bass. She's by herself, there's hope of that; she's sad too;

She's in strong contemplation; yes, and fixed: 160
The signs are wholesome.

Grau. Very wholesome, truly.

Bass. Hold your chops, nightmare!-Lady, come; your brother

Is carried to his closet; you must thither.

Pen. Not well, my lord?

Bass. A sudden fit, 'twill off;

Some surfeit of disorder.-How dost, dearest ?

Pen. Your news is none o' th' best.

Enter Prophilus.

Pro. The chief of men,

The excellentest Ithocles, desires

Your presence, madam.

Bass. We are hasting to him.

Pen. In vain we labour in this course of life

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To piece our journey out at length, or crave Respite of breath; our home is in the grave. Bass. Perfect philosophy!

Pen. Then let us care

To live so, that our reckonings may fall even,
When we're to make account.

Pro. He cannot fear

Who builds on noble grounds: sickness or pain

Is the deserver's exercise; and such

Your virtuous brother to the world is known.
Speak comfort to him, lady, be all gentle;
Stars fall but in the grossness of our sight,
A good man dying, th' earth doth lose a light.

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[Exeunt.

ACT III

SCENE I

The Study of Tecnicus.

Enter Tecnicus, and Orgilus, in his usual Dress.

Tec. Be well advised; let not a resolution

Of giddy rashness choke the breath of reason. Org. It shall not, most sage master.

Tec. I am jealous ;

For if the borrow'd shape so late put on,
Inferred a consequence, we must conclude
Some violent design of sudden nature
Hath shook that shadow off, to fly upon
A new-hatch'd execution. Orgilus,
Take heed thou hast not, under our integrity,
Shrowded unlawful plots; our mortal eyes
Pierce not the secrets of your heart, the gods
Are only privy to them.

Org. Learned Tecnicus,

Such doubts are causeless; and, to clear the truth

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From misconceit,-the present state commands me.
The prince of Argos comes himself in person
In quest of great Calantha for his bride,

Our kingdom's heir? besides, mine only sister,
Euphranea, is disposed to Prophilus :
Lastly, the king is sending letters for me
To Athens, for my quick repair to court;
Please to accept these reasons.

Tec. Just ones, Orgilus,

Not to be contradicted: yet, beware
Of an unsure foundation; no fair colours
Can fortify a building faintly jointed.
I have observ'd a growth in thy aspect

Of dangerous extent, sudden, and—look to’t—
I might add, certain—

Org. My aspect ! could art

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30

Run through mine inmost thoughts, it should not sift

An inclination there, more than what suited

With justice of mine honour.

Tec. I believe it.

But know then, Orgilus, what honour is :
Honour consists not in a bare opinion

By doing any act that feeds content,

Brave in appearance, 'cause we think it brave;
Such honour comes by accident, not nature
Proceeding from the vices of our passion,

40

Which makes our reason drunk : but real honour
Is the reward of virtue, and acquired