QUEEN. My gracious lord, since no desert in me Can merit your belief, nor that your eye Can rightly judge my pure complexion: Yet as your handmaid let me beg the right, Due unto wretches from our country's laws. CYP. The tenor of the law you do demand? QUEEN. That in the case of slander, where the proof Proceeds as much from envy as from truth, We are allow'd our champions to defend Our innocence with a well-ordered sword. CYP. I look'd for this objection, and allow it; Nor am I unprovided for your best And strongest hope in any victory: Lords, attend in my champion. _Here the noble-men go forth, and bring in the_ DUKE OF EPIRE _like a combatant_. QUEEN. Will you, my lord, approve the king's assertion? EPIRE. Madam, although against the nature of my spirit, And my first duty bound to your allegiance, Yet now compell'd by duty and by truth, I must of force become your opposite. QUEEN. Thou art no true Italian, nor true gentleman, Thus to confound the glory of thy judgment. Hath not that arm which now is arm'd against me-- That valour, spirit, judgment, and that worth, Which only makes you worthy--stood t' approve More than myself will challenge to my virtues? And are you now basely turn'd retrograde? Well, I perceive there's nought in you but spleen And time's observance, still to hold the best-- Still I demand the law. CYP. And you shall have it in the amplest manner. Sound, cornets. _Here the cornets sound thrice, and at the third sound_ _enters_ PHILOCLES, _disguised like a combatant_. FLO. There is a combatant on the defendant's part; Your majesty's pleasure? CYP. Give him his oath according to the laws. FLO. Are the fair ends of this your warlike posture To prove the innocence of these two condemn'd? So help you Jove! PHIL. They are. CYP. Then give the warlike signal to the fight. _Here the combat being fought_, PHILOCLES _overcomes_ _the_ DUKE. PHIL. Thou art my slave, either confess or die. EPIRE. Didst thou speak true, I would not sound a word To save the world from cinders; yet that thou may'st With more resolv'd fury murder me, This I confess: 'twas I that only stirr'd, Out of strong falsehood's hate and jealousy, The king's eternal wrath, and made him think Untruths, that even untruth would not suggest: And all my malice sprung from that Prince Philocles. PHIL. No, 'twas from me, that still am Philocles.