_Scene, Sicily._ THE DUMB KNIGHT.[128] ACTUS I, SCÆNA 1.[129] _Enter the_ KING OF CYPRUS, PHILOCLES, FLORIO, _and Attendants in arms_. [_Music._ Enough; these loud sounds deaf my passions: How long shall love make me a slave to hope, And mix my calm desires with tyranny? O Philocles! this[130] heresy I hold, Thought and affection cannot be controll'd. PHIL. Yet may't be bent and suppled with extremes, Sith few foresee[131] the end of violence. What makes the skilful leech[132] to use the fire, Or war her engines, or states policy, But to recover things most desperate? Revolt is recreant, when pursuit is brave, Never to faint doth purchase what we crave. CYP. True, my Philocles, yet my recreant soul, Slav'd to her beauty, would renounce all war, And yield her right to love, did not thy spirit, Mix'd with my longing, fortify these arms. But I am now resolv'd, and this sad hour Shall give an end to my distemperature. Summon a parley. _Enter aloft the_ QUEEN OF SICILY, MARIANA,[133] _the_ DUKE OF EPIRE, ALPHONSO, _and Attendants_. QUEEN. What says our tyrant suitor, our disease in love, That makes our thoughts a slave unto his sword: What says my lord? CYP. Madam, attend me, this is my latest summons: The many suns my sorrows have beheld, And my sad nights of longings, all through hope T' enjoy the joy of earth (your own dear self), Are grown so infinite in length and weight, That like to wearied Atlas I enforce These wars, as Hercules, to bear my load: Briefly, I must enjoy you, or else lose The breath of life which to prevent, behold My sword must be my Cupid, and with feather'd steel Force pity from your breast. Your city's walls, Chidden with my cannons, have set ope a path, And boldly bid me enter: all your men of war, Feebled with famine and a weary siege, Take danger from mine actions: only yourself, Strong in your will, oppose even destiny, And like the giants' war offend the heavens. Which to prevent, do but descend and give Peace to my love-suit, and as o'ercome thereby I'll yield myself your prisoner, and be drawn A thrall in your triumphant victory. If otherwise, behold these fatal swords Shall ne'er be sheath'd till we be conquerors: And, not respecting innocence nor sex, The cries of infants, nor the prayers of age, All things shall perish, till within my arms I fold yourself, my thrall and conqueror.