_Flo_. _Albertus_, welcome.--And now, _Cornelia_, Are we alone? looke first; I, all is safe. Daughter, I charge thee now even by that love In which we have been partiall towards thee (Above thy sister, blest with bewties guifts) Receive this vertuous powder at my hands, And (having mixt it in a bowle of Wine) Give it unto the Prince in his carowse. I meane no villanie heerein to him But love to thee wrought by that charmed cup. We are (by birth) more noble then our fortunes; Why should we, then, shun any meanes we can To raise us to our auncient states againe? Thou art my eldest care, thou best deserv'st To have thy imperfections helpt by love. _Corn_. Then, father, shall we seeke sinister meanes Forbidden by the lawes of God and men? Can that love prosper which is not begun By the direction of some heavenly fate? _Flo_. I know not; I was nere made Bishop yet; I must provide for mine, and still preferre (Above all these) the honour of my house: Come, therefore, no words, but performe my charge. _Cor_. If you will have it so I must consent. [_Exeunt_. [SCENE 2.] _Enter Alberdure, Hyanthe, Leander and Moth_. _Alber_. My deere _Hyanthe_, my content, my life, Let no new fancie change thee from my love; And for my rivall (whom I must not wrong, Because he is my father and my Prince) Give thou him honour but give me thy love. O that my rivall bound me not in dutie To favour him, then could I tell _Hyanthe_ That he alreadie (with importun'd suite) Hath to the _Brunswick_ Dutchesse vow'd himselfe, That his desires are carelesse and his thoughts Too fickle and imperious for love: But I am silent, dutie ties my tongue. _Hya_. Why? thinks my joy, my princely _Alderbure_, _Hyanthes_ faith stands on so weake a ground, That it will fall or bend with everie winde? No stormes or lingring miseries shall shake it, Much lesse vaine titles of commaunding love. _Moth_. Madam, dispatch him then, rid him out of this earthlie purgatorie; for I have such a coile with him a nights, grunting and groaning in his sleepe, with "O, _Hyanthe_! my deare _Hyanthe_! And then hee throbs me in his armes, as if he had gotten a great Jewell by the eare. _Alber_. Away, you wag.--And tell me now, my love, What is the cause Earle _Cassimere_ (your father) Hath been so long importunate with me To visit _Flores_ the brave Jeweller? _Hyan_. My father doth so dote on him, my Lord, That he thinkes he doth honour every man Whom he acquaints with his perfections. Therefore (in any wise) prepare your selfe To grace and sooth his great conceit of him; For everie jesture, everie word he speakes, Seemes to my father admirablie good. _Lean_. Indeed, my Lord, his high conceipt of him Is more then any man alive deserves. He thinkes the Jeweller made all of Jewels, Who, though he be a man of gallant spirit, Faire spoken and well furnisht with good parts, Yet not so peerleslie to be admir'd. _Enter Cassimere_.