BEL. Tribute! alas, that Spain cannot of peace Forbear a little coin, the Indies being so near. And yet this is not all: I know you are too hot, Too full of spleen for an embassador, And will lean much to honour. AND. Pish![291] BEL. Nay, hear me, dear! I know you will be rough And violent; and Portugal hath a tempestuous son, Stamp’d with the mark of fury, and you too. AND. Sweet Bell’-Imperia! BEL. You’ll[292] meet like thunder, each imperious Over other’s spleen; you have both proud spirits, And both will strive to aspire. When Two vexed clouds justle, they strike out fire: And you, I fear me, war, which peace forefend. O dear Andrea, pray, let’s have no wars! First let them pay the soldiers that were maimed In the last battle, ere more wretches fall, Or walk on stilts to timeless funeral. AND. Respective dear! O my life’s happiness! The joy of all my being! do not shape Frightful conceit beyond the intent of act! I know thy love is vigilant o’er my blood, And fears ill-fate which heaven hath yet withstood. But be of comfort; sweet Horatio knows I go to knit friends, not to kindle foes. HOR. True, madam Bell’-Imperia, that’s his task: The phrase he useth must be gently styled, The king hath warned him to be smooth and mild. BEL. But will you, indeed, Andrea? AND. By this. BEL. By this lip-blushing kiss. HOR. O, you swear sweetly. BEL. I’ll keep your oath for you, till you return, Then I’ll be sure you shall not be forsworn. _Enter_ PEDRINGANO. AND. Ho, Pedringano! PED. Signior? AND. Are all things aboard? PED. They are, my good lord. AND. Then. Bell’-Imperia, I take leave; Horatio Be, in my absence, my dear self, chaste self.-- What! playing the woman, Bell’-Imperia? Nay, then you love me not; or, at the least, You drown my honours in those flowing waters. Believe it, Bell’-Imperia, ’tis as common To weep at parting, as to be a woman. Love me more valiant; play not this moist prize; Be woman in all parts save in thy eyes. And so I leave thee. BEL. Farewell, my lord: Be mindful of my love and of your word. AND. ’Tis fixed upon my heart; adieu, soul’s friend! HOR. All honour on Andrea’s steps attend. BEL. Yet he is in sight, and yet but now he’s vanished. [_Exit_ ANDREA. HOR. Nay, lady, if you stoop so much to passion, I’ll call him back again. BEL. O good Horatio, no; it is for honour. Pr’y-thee, let him go. HOR. Then, madam, be composed, as you were wont, To music and delight; the time being comic, will Seem short and pleasant, till his return From Portugal. And, madam, in this circle Let your heart move; Honoured promotion is the sap of love. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ LORENZO _and_ LAZAROTTO, _a discontented Courtier._