_Thu_. Consider ont? wonder has soe engrossd To its wild use all corners of my heart That there remaines scarce one poore concave left To hold consideration. I must either Love her I hate or see her whome I love Wilfully perish. See, shee kneeles and weeps, Prays as she meant to expiate all the sinns Earth ere committed. One of those pure drops Does (as my lives blood in a soddaine trance) Surround my heart. You have prevaild, arise: At your request I will performe an act, Which may no story hold least all who love Hereafter curse the president,--Ile love her. That deathfull word comes from my torturd soule As a consent doth from a timorous maid For an enforcing ravisher. _Tho_. You are not mad, sir? what doe you meane? _Cla_. I thanke you. But love her dearely, _Thurston_, sheele deserv't: I doe remember, when my Father livd, How he would praise her goodnes. Think on me As one that lovd you well, but neer like her; And, if you please, bestow each day a kisse Uppon her in my memory. Soe, farewell.-- Sorrows flow high: one griefe succeed another; I die in piety to redeeme my Mother. [_Exit_. _Tho_. But, harke you, sir, do you intend to love her. _Thu_. Good sir, torment me not. _Enter Grimes_. _Grimes_. By your leave, gentlemen: good Mr. _Thorowgood_, a word or two in private. _Thu_. Compeld to love my enemy! what man, That had but so much spiritt as a mule, Could suffer this! Lay nice prescriptions, Ambiguous bookmen, on submissive slaves; Affright with terror of a wilfull death Those whom black murders of inhumane sin Has living damnd; Ime yet in my owne heart White as a babe, as Innocent as light From any mortall guilt; and were my soule Drawn fro this mew[119] of flesh twould quickly streatch Like a swift Falkon her aspiring wings And soare at heaven. Nature instructs us Death Is due to all: how can't be then a Sinn To die, or he more guilty of offense That kills himselfe or [than?] he who in his bed Some shivoring ague murders? Ime resol[v']d; Ile rather chuse to immolate my life In Martirdome to virtue then reserve't Till it be staind with mischiefes. _Enter Lady_. _Lady_. How doe you, sir? _Thu_. Oh, oh, my head, my head! Stand further of, good nightcrow: if thou comst As a presaging harbinger of death, Howlt in thy direfulst and most horrid notes, And ['t] will be wellcome as choyse musick to me And Ile adore thee fort, with teares of ioy Make thy black feathers white. _Lady_. Good sir, mistake me not, I am your friend.