Act 4 — [ACT IV., SCENE 1.]

Lys. This is the hour powerful Acanthe promis'd I should once more behold my lost Milesia. Pardon me, Reason, that my wither'd hopes Rebel against thy force; a happiness So mighty is oppos'd unto thy doubts, That I'll divest myself for ever of thee, Rather than not believe impossibles, That bring such comforts to my languish'd soul. Hail, holy treasurer of all the wealth Nature e'er lent the world! be still the envy Of the proud monuments that do enclose The glorious titles of great conquerors. Let no profane air pierce thee but my sighs;

Let them have entrance, whilst my tears do warm Thy colder marble. Ha! what miracle! Are the gods pleas'd to work to ease affliction? The phœnix is created from her ashes, Pure as the flames that made 'em: still the same, The same Milesia! Heaven does confess in this, That she can only add unto thy beauty By making it immortal. Let it be lawful for thy Lysicles To touch thy sacred hand, and with it guide My wandering soul unto that part of heaven Thy beauty does enlighten. Ghost. Forbear, and hear me. If you approach, I vanish—— Impious, inconstant Lysicles! Cannot This miracle of my reassuming A mortal shape persuade thee there are gods To punish falsehood, that thou still persistest In thy dissembling? Do not I know Thy heart is swoll'n with vows thou hast laid up For thy Hermione? whom thou wouldst persuade Thy narrow heart is capable of love, By mocking of my ashes, and erecting tombs To me, which are indeed but trophies of thy dead Conquer'd love and virtue. Lys. No more, bless'd shape! I shall not think that thou descendst from heaven, If thou continuest thus in doubt of me; Nor can there be a hell where such forms are. The knowledge how thou com'st here doth disturb me; Yet such a reverence I do owe thy image, That I will lay before thee all my thoughts, Spotless as truth. Then thou shalt tell the shades, How fortune, though it made my love unhappy, Could not diminish it, nor press it one degree From the proud height it was arrived to. How I did nightly pray to this sad tomb, Bringing and taking fire of constant love From the cold ashes. How, when encompass'd With thousand horrors, death had been a rest [from], I did prefer a loath'd life, to revenge myself And her upon the murderer. Ghost. I shall desire to live if this be true; Nothing can add a comfort where I am, But the assurance of your love. I know Faith is not tied to pass the confines Of this life; yet Hermione's happiness Does trouble me. You'll think I lov'd You living, when (dead) I am jealous of you. Lys. Milesia, bless'd saint, now I am sure thou art What thou resemblest, and dost know my secret'st thought. But as the gods, of which thou art a part, Are not content with our hearts' sacrifice, Unless our words confess it; hear me then: If my thoughts e'er consented to replant My love, may your dire thunder light Upon my head, and sink it down so low, I may not see thy glories. I confess My words have sacrific'd to deities I ne'er ador'd. Those strains of love My tears and friendship to the best of men, I hope have cancell'd. For my Eugenio I did pretend a love unto Hermione, Who else had sold herself unto the rage Of her offended father. Had you liv'd, You would have pardon'd, when infidelity, But personated, did preserve a faith So holy as theirs was; this is my fault. Ghost. My glory and my happiness! Lys. Yet this, as oft I wept as I was forc'd (For his dear cause) to injure sacred love; Yet durst not but decline his severe laws, When my friend's life excus'd the pious error. Ghost. Did you suspect her, that you conceal'd this from her? Lys. There is but one Milesia; besides, If true, I meant her fears should aid My false disguise, which her quick-sighted father Would else have pierc'd, who hates Eugenio, And loves no virtue but what shines through wealth. Ghost. My best, best Lysicles, I am again in love, Thy holy flame doth lend me light to see My closed fires. Why did not fate give me So large a field to exercise my faith? I envy thee this trial, and would be Expos'd to dangers, that have yet no name, That I might meet thy love with equal merit. Lys. The cause takes all away, and want of power Excuseth what I cannot yet express. But how our loves came to so sad a period, As yet in clouds I have only seen [shown.] Ghost. My uncle's cruelty and hate of you procur'd our separation. Lys. But how knew he our loves? Though torment since Have wrung it from me, my joys ever flow'd silent And calm. Ghost. I know it; but we were betray'd By one that serv'd me, and the doubt's confirm'd By the Moor you spake with yesterday. Lys. Ha! how came she to know it? She was not here? Ghost. All that I ever did she's conscious of; And jealous of your love unto Hermione, Did place me here, to search into your thoughts; And now is prouder of this discovery, Than if a crown were added to her [brows]. Lys. To what strange laws does heaven confine itself, That it will suffer them that dare be damn'd To have power over those it has selected? My tears and sacrifice could never gain So much upon its mercy, as to lend Thy happy sight for one faint minute's comfort; Yet those that sell themselves to hell, can force Thy quiet rest for inquisition On innocence. And to what purpose serves Faith and religious secrecy, When magic mocks and frustrates all our vows? This Moor then was confederate with your uncle's passion? Ghost. She is the cause that I do walk in shades. Lys. And I will be that she shall walk in hell. With her I will begin, then seek revenge Under the ruins of thy uncle's house. All men that dare to name him, and not curse His memory, shall feel the power Of my despised hate and friendship. Ghost. My dearest Lysicles, promise to be But temperate in your anger, and I will Discover more than you yet hop'd to know. Lys. As justice, that's concern'd to punish crimes, I will. Ghost. Then know I was betray'd. O love! here's company, I must retire. [Sinks.

Pin. Talking to graves at night, and making love i' th' day? My lord, I nor my daughter have deserved this. Lys. Pardon me, sir, I could do no less, being to take An everlasting farewell, but give this Visit to her memory. Reserve your censure Till ten days be over, and if I do not Satisfy you, condemn me. [Exeunt.

Her. [Here,] Philly, take thy lute, and sing the song Was given thee last. [Exit Phillida.

Where did you borrow that last sigh And that relenting groan? For those that sigh, and not for love, Usurp what's not their own. Love's arrows sooner armour pierce, Than your soft snowy skin; Your eyes can only teach us love, But cannot take it in.

Phil. O madam! call all your sorrows to you, you are Not sad enough to hear the news I bring. Her. Would it were killing, that my death might end My fears, as my life has my hopes. Phil. You mistake me, madam; Eugenio is returned.

Phil. He waits on your commands without. Her. Bring him in. Good gods! If you can suffer me one minute's joy, Give it me now, and let excess of happiness Finish what sorrow cannot. But where's this happiness I fain would dream of? Eugenio is return'd, That I may look on him, and not be his, And call our faiths in vain to aid our loves.