How can mine eyes dart forth a pleasant look, When they are stopp'd with floods of flowing tears? SOLIMAN. If tongue with grief, and eyes with tears be fill'd, Say, virgin, how doeth thy heart admit The pure affection of great Soliman? PERSEDA. My thoughts are like pillars of adamant, Too hard to take a new impression. SOLIMAN. Nay, then, I see, my stooping makes her proud; She is my vassal, and I will command. Coy virgin, know'st thou what offence it is To thwart the will and pleasure of a king? Why, thy life is done, if I but say the word. PERSEDA. Why, that's the period that my heart desires. SOLIMAN. And die thou shalt, unless thou change thy mind. PERSEDA. Nay, then, Perseda grows resolute: Soliman's thoughts and mine resemble Lines parallel,[414] that never can be join'd. SOLIMAN. Then kneel thee down, And at my hands receive the stroke of death, Doom'd to thyself by thine own wilfulness. PERSEDA. Strike, strike; thy words pierce deeper than thy blows. SOLIMAN. Brusor, hide her; for her looks withhold me. [_Then_ BRUSOR _hides her with a lawn_. O Brusor, thou hast not hid her lips; For there sits Venus with Cupid on her knee, And all the graces smiling round about her, So craving pardon, that I cannot strike. BRUSOR. Her face is cover'd over quite, my lord. SOLIMAN. Why, so: O Brusor, seest thou not Her milkwhite neck, that alabaster tower? 'Twill break the edge of my keen scimitar, And pieces, flying back, will wound myself. BRUSOR. Now she is all covered, my lord. SOLIMAN. Why now at last she dies. PERSEDA. O Christ, receive my soul! SOLIMAN. Hark, Brusor; she calls on Christ: I will not send her to him. Her words are music; The selfsame music that in ancient days Brought Alexander from war to banqueting. And made him fall from skirmishing to kissing. No, my dear love would not let me kill thee, Though majesty would turn desire to wrath: There lies my sword, humbled at thy feet; And I myself, that govern many kings, Entreat a pardon for my rash misdeed. PERSEDA. Now Soliman wrongs his imperial state; But if thou love me, and have hope to win, Grant me one boon that I shall crave of thee. SOLIMAN. Whate'er it be, Perseda, I grant it thee.