Ay, there it is: now all my friends are slain, And fair Perseda murder'd or deflowr'd: Ah, gracious Soliman! now show thy love In not denying thy poor suppliant; Suffer me not to stay here in thy presence, But by myself lament me once for all: Here if I stay, I must suppress my tears, And tears suppress'd will but increase my sorrow. SOLIMAN. Go, then, go spend thy mournings all at once, That in thy presence Soliman may joy; For hitherto have I reap'd little pleasure. [_Exit_ ERASTUS. Well, well, Erastus, Rhodes may bless thy birth: For his sake only will I spare them more, From spoil, pillage, and oppression, Than Alexander spared warlike Thebes For Pindarus; or than Augustus Spared rich Alexandria for Arias' sake. _Enter_ BRUSOR, PERSEDA, _and_ LUCINA. BRUSOR. My gracious lord, rejoice in happiness: All Rhodes is yok'd, and stoops to Soliman. SOLIMAN. First, thanks to heav'n; and next, to Brusor's valour, Which I'll not guerdon with large promises; But straight reward thee with a bounteous largess. But what two Christian virgins have we here? BRUSOR. Part of the spoil of Rhodes, which were preserved To be presented to your mightiness. SOLIMAN. This present pleaseth more than all the rest; And, were their garments turn'd from black to white, I should have deem'd them Juno's goodly swans, Or Venus' milkwhite doves: so mild they are, And so adorn'd with beauty's miracle. Here, Brusor, this kind turtle shall be thine; Take her, and use her at thy pleasure: But this kind turtle is for Soliman, That her captivity may turn to bliss. Fair looks, resembling Phoebus' radiant beams; Smooth forehead, like the table of high Jove; Small pencill'd eyebrows, like two glorious rainbows; Quick lamplike eyes, like heav'n's two brightest orbs; Lips of pure coral, breathing ambrosy; Cheeks, where the rose and lily are in combat; Neck, whiter than the snowy Apenines, Breasts, like two overflowing fountains, 'Twixt which a vale leads to th' Elysian shades, Where under covert lies the fount of pleasure, Which thoughts may guess, but tongue must not profane; A sweeter creature nature never made: Love never tainted Soliman till now. Now, fair virgin, let me hear thee speak. PERSEDA. What can my tongue utter but grief and death? SOLIMAN. The sound is honey, but the sense is gall: Then, sweeting, bless me with a cheerful look. PERSEDA.