QUEEN. Thou may'st be master of my body's tomb; But for my soul and mind they are as free As their creation, and with angel's wings Can soar beyond thy reach: trust me, King of Cyprus, Those coals the Roman Portia did devour Are not burnt out, nor have th' Egyptian worms[134] Yet lost their stings; steel holds his temper still, And these are ransoms from captivity. But art thou noble? hast thou one royal thought? CYP. Approve me by your question. QUEEN. Then briefly thus: To shun the great effusion of their bloods, Who feel no touch in mine affections, Dare you to single combat, two to two, Refer your right in love? CYP. Who are your combatants? we love equality. QUEEN. This is the first, the Epire duke, a man Sprung from the line of famous Scanderbeg. The next Alphonso, sprung from noble blood; Who, laden with rich Lusitanian prize, Hath rode through Syracuse twice in pomp. CYP. Their likings to the motion? EPIRE. They are like wrath, Never unarm'd to beat weak injury. ALPH. Nay more, we are the sons of destiny: Virtue's our guide, our aim is dignity. PHIL. 'Sfoot, king, shalt not forsake 'em: this I see, Love, fight, and death are rul'd by destiny. CYP. My spirit speaks thy motion, Madam, although advantage might evade, And give my love more hope, yet my bent will, Bow'd to your pleasure, doth embrace your law. We do accept the combat, and ourself Will with that duke try fortunes; this my friend, The more[135] part of myself, my dearest Philocles, One of an angel's temper, shall with that lord Try best and worst. The place? the time? the sword? EPIRE. They are your rights, we claim as challengers. CYP. And we would lose that 'vantage; but since fame Makes virtue dullard,[136] we embrace our rights: The place before these walls, the hour next sun, The pole-axe and the hand-axe for the fight. QUEEN. It is enough; My hostage is my person and my love, CYP. And mine my hope, my faith, and royalty. EPIRE. They are of poise sufficient, and one light Shall at one instant give us day and night. [_Exeunt_ QUEEN, MARIANA, EPIRE, ALPHONSO, _&c._ CYP. She's gone, my Philocles: and as she goes, even so The sun forsakes the heavens to kiss the sea; Day in her beauty leaves us, and me thinks Her absence doth exile all happiness. Tell me, my Philocles, nay, prythee, Tell me true, even from that love Which to us both should blend one sympathy, Discharge an open breast: dost thou not think She is the mirror of her beauteous sex, Unparallel'd and uncompanioned?