Eleonora.

Hen. Yet the Citty is safe enough; feare not, Eleonora;
The Bullets make no noyse here: if the Towne
Should yield her strength up to th'invader, thou
Art lockd up like a spirit in a Christall:
Not an enchanted Castle, held up by
Strong charme, is halfe so safe. This house, though now
It carry not the figure & faire shape
Which the first workeman gave it, eating Time
Having devourd the face of't, is within
A Sanctuary, & hath so much cunning
Couchd in the body not a Laborinth
Is so full of Meanders.

Ele. Sir, your presence
Confirmes me in opinion of my safety;
Not of my life so much, for that's a thing
I owe to nature & should one day be
A-weary of it; like to Innes we take
Our houses up, having but here a place
Of Lodging not of dwelling:—but of honour
You give me my assurance, for in such
A time of thicke confusions I much feare
That might be hazarded. And who knowes what
The soldier that hath no lawe but that
Of cruelty and rapine, when like a Bird
Of prey his Tallents are possessd of one
So weake as I am—

Hen. He that durst offend
Thee with a sillable or but fright that bloud
Out of thy Cheekes to seeke another place,
Not daring to be seene there where it now
Is of itselfe sufficient to ravish
A mortall that with just eyes can looke on it,
Had better be a divell. But a haire,
The poorest part of thee & in this excellent
Because 'tis thine, should any dare to ravish
From these his soft companions, which the wind
Would be for ever proud to play withall,
H'had better dig his mothers coffin up
And with his teeth eate what the wormes have left.

Ele. I know you will defend me.

Hen. Will defend thee!
Have I a life, a soule that in thy service
I would not wish expird! I doe but borrow
My selfe from thee.

Ele. Rather you put to Interest
And, for that principall you have credited
To Eleonora her heart is paid backe
As the iust Usury.

Hen. You undoe me, sweet, With too much love; if ere I marry thee I feare thou'lt kill me.

Ele. How?

Hen. With tendring me too much, my Eleonora; For in my conscience thou'lt extreamely love me, And extreames often kill.

Ele. There can be no extreme of love[21], sir.

Hen. Yes, but there may; and some say Jealousy Runs from the Sea, a rivolet but deducted From the mayne Channell.

Ele. This is a new language.

Hen. Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy?
Our griefe doth but contract the heart, & gladnesse
Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther
Is hott i'th' fourth degree.

Ele. Sir, your discourse
Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not
With that you usd but now: if we can practize
A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't.
—What doe you, Sir?

Hen. Looke on thee.

Ele. Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well?

Hen. Well, never better.

Ele. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father?

Hen. He's very well, too; feare not.

Ele. Still I read in your eyes—

Hen. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else;
I receive that way all this beauty into
My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke
Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe,
It shall not trouble you:—hence my trayterous thoughts.

Ele. Indeed you are not well.

Hen. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me.
Why should I be a villaine? Eleonora
Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away,
They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or
Lett me by parting carry along with me
That which to know undoes thee.

Ele. Are you not hurt?

Hen. Yes.

Ele. Good heaven defend! I have a soveraigne Balme. [Exit.

Hen. Vanish, you ugly shapes, & with her presence
Quitt your sharp stings! into what monstrous creature
Feele I myself a-growing! yet I cannot
Force backe the streame, it comes so fast upon me;
I cannot.

Enter Eleonora.

Ele. Here, good Henrico, let me see your wound.

Hen. No, I am well againe; thankes, my best love. Come, let us walke and talke; I had a fancy, But 'tis no matter:—Buzzano!

Enter Buzzano.

Buz. Did you call?

Hen. Yes, the Balme here—

Buz. What shall I doe with it?

Hen. Lay it up safe; 'tis good for a greene wound But mines a blacke one:—and d'you heare, sirra, Draw up the bridge, give entrance unto none.

Buz. All my fellowes are abroad, sir; there's nobody at home but I.

Hen. No matter, let none enter; were my father Brought with a whirlwind backe, he finds all shutt Till I have done.

Buz. Well, sir;—madam, all this is that you should not b' afraid: you now see what a kind man he is,—he will suffer none to enter but himselfe. [Exit.

Ele. If all this proceed out of your care of me, how much am I bound to acknowledge you. Sir, methinkes you minde me not.

Hen. Yes, I doe nothing else but thinke of thee, & of my father, too, Don Pedro.

Ele. Ha! I hope he's well.

Hen. I wish he were returned, my Eleonora, for both our sakes.

Ele. The same wish I, sir.

Hen. That then our Joys, which now like flowers nippd
With frost, hang downe the head as if the stalkes
Could not sustaine the toppes, they droope to much;—
At his returne th'art mine.

Ele. I am yours now In holyest Contract.

Hen. That's the ground we build on:
Faith, since allready the foundation's layd,
Let's work upon't. Y'are mine, you say, allready—
Mine by all tearmes of Law, & nothing wanting
But the possession: let's not then expect
Th'uncertainety of a returne from France,
But be all one ymediately.

Ele. I understand you not.

Hen. Since y'are a Tree reservd for me what now
Should hinder me from climbing? All your apples
I know are ripe allready; 'tis not stealth,
I shall rob nobody.

Ele. You'le not be a divell?

Hen. No, I will but play the man with you: why, you know 'tis nothing.

Ele. Will you enforce mine honour? oh, Henrico,
Where have you left your goodnesse? sure you cannot
Be so ignoble, if you thinke me worthy
To be your wife at least, to turne Eleonora
Into a