_Cla_. There is a lady, Of such a perfect virtue, grace and sweetnes, That Nature was to all our sex beside A niggard, only bountiful to her; One whose harmonious bewtie may intitule All hearts its captive: yet she doats on you With such a masculine fancy that to love her Is duty in you. _Thu_. It is herselfe, Ime sure. _Tho_. It surely is no other. _Cla_. No, tis one So farr transcending me, that twere a sinne Should I deprive you, the most perfect man, Of her, the perfectest woman. She will weepe Even at your name; breath miriads of sighes; Wring her hands thus; demonstrate all the signes Of a destracted lover; that in pitty, Though I did love you well, I have transferd My right to her, and charge you by all ties That you affect her with the same true zeale Which you did me, and ift be possible, Purer and better. _Tho_. This is the strangest madnes I ere heard of. _Thu_. Is it you, _Clariana_, that speake all this? _Cla_. You know and heare it is. _Thu_. But I doe scarce Credit my hearing, or conceive I am Mortall, for surely, had I bin, your words Like the decree of heaven had struck me dead. What strong temptation lay you on my faith! O, _Clariana_, let me but decline Passion, and tell you seriously that this Is cruel in you, first to scorne my love, Next to admitt a scruple of beleife, Though you can be perfidious to your selfe, That I can be soe. Noe; since you are lost, Ile like the solitary turtle mourne Cause I must live without you. But, pray, tell me What is she you would have me love? _Cla_. My Mother. _Thu_. Ha, your Mother! _Tho_. Ist possible, lady? you much doe wrong Your innocence in laboring to enforce That upon him which is my interest. Heaven Smild at the contract twixt us; quiers of Saints Receivd our mutuall vowes, and though your Mother May in her passion seeme to have forgott Her pretious faith, yet when I shall awake Her sleeping reason with the memory Of that has past betwixt us, my strong hope Tells me I shall induce her to the spheare Which she has movd from. _Cla_. Would heaven you could! How coldly in this cause Doe I perswade! when I would speake, my heart Checks its bold orator, my tongue, and tells it Tis traitorous to its Mr.--Noble Sir, [_kneele_ I doe conceit you infinitly good, So pittiful that mercy is in you Even naturally superlative, (forgive me, If I offend) you doe in this transgresse Humanity, to let a lady love you Without requitall. But I must professe To heaven and you, that here Ile fix to earth, Weepe till I am a statue, but Ile gaine Your pitie for her: pray consider ont.