_Val_. That is thy fathers hand, thou dost not doubt? And if thou shouldst, I have witnesse to approve it. Yet tho it be his hand, grant to my request, Love me and live. _Fred_. To live so, I detest. Love thee! _Valen_. I, love me, gentle _Fredericke_, love me. _Fred_. Incestuous strumpet, cease. _Val_. Oh thou dealest ill, To render so much spleene for my good will. _Fred_. Torment farre worse then death. _Valen_. Ile follow thee: Deare _Fredericke_, like thy face, be thy words faire. _Fre_. This monstrous dealing doubles my deaths care. _Valen_. What shall I call thee to allay this ire? _Fred_. Why, call me son and blush at thy desire. _Valen_. I never brought thee foorth. _Fred_. Art thou not wife Unto my father? _Val_. Thinke upon thy life: It lyes like mine, onely in gentle breath; Or that thy father's dead, and after death 'Tis in my choice to marry whom I will. _Fred_. Any but me. _Valen_. O doe not thinke so ill, Rather thinke, thou art a stranger, not his sonne; Then 'tis no incest tho the Act be done. Nature unto her selfe is too unkind To buzze such scruples into _Fredericks_ minde; Twas a device of man to avoid selfe love, Else every pleasure in one stocke should move, Beautie in grace part never from the kinne. _Fred_. If thou persever as thou hast begun, I shall forget I am my fathers sonne, I shall forget thou art my fathers wife, And where 'tis I must die abridge thy life. _Valen_. Why did'st not kill me, being thy prisoner then, But friendly didst deliver me again[212] Unto thy father, wert not thou didst love me? _Fred_. Beyond all sufferance, monster, thou dost move me. 'Twas for my fathers sake, not for thine owne; That, to thy lifes losse, thou hadst throughly knowne But that relenting nature playde her part, To save thy blood whose losse had slaine his heart: And it repents me not hee doth survive, But that his fortune was so ill to wive. Come, kill, for for that you came; shun delayes Lest living Ile tell this to thy dispraise, Make him to hate thee, as he hath just cause, And like a strumpet turne thee to the lawes. _Valen_. Good _Fredericke_. _Fred_. Tis resolv'd on, I haue said. _Valen_. Then fatall Ministers I craue your ayde. _Enter Van. and Mont_. Come, _Vandermas, Montano_, wheres your corde? Quicklie dispatch, strangle this hatefull Lord. Or stay: because I love him, he shall chuse The easiest of three deaths that we may use, The halter, poyson, or bloodshedding blade. _Fred_. Any of them. _Valen_. This Aconite's well made, a cup of poyson Stuft with despatching simples, give him this, And he shall quickly leave all earthly blisse. There, take it, _Fredericke_, our last guift of grace; Since thou must die, Ile have thee die apace.