EPIRE. I should think strangely, had we not stranger things On earth; but wonders[176] now are most familiar: But here comes his majesty. Now we shall see If this dumb beast can speak before the king. _Cornets, and enter_ CYPRUS, QUEEN, PHILOCLES, MARIANA, _and attendants_. CYP. My best of friends, my dearest Philocles, Thy griefs run in my spirit, make me sad, And dull my sense with thine affliction. My soul with thine doth sympathise in woe, And passion governs him that should rule all, [PHILOCLES _does not reply_. What say you, doctors, is there no hope of help? 1ST DOC. No hope, my lord; the cure is desperate. CYP. Then I am king of grief; for in his words Found I more music than in choirs of angels. It was as silver, as the chime of spheres, The breath of lutes, or love's deliciousness: Next to my queen, he is my joy on earth: Nor shall the world contain that happy good, Which with my tears I will not woo for him. My Lord of Epire, let it be straight proclaim'd Through all the cities in our kingdom's verge, That whoso will avow to cure this prince, And bring his work to wish'd effectualness, Shall have ten thousand crowns and our best love; But if he fail in his great enterprise, His daring is the loss of present life. Since no man hitherto could do him good, The next shall help him, or else lose his blood. EPIRE. Your majesty shall have your will perform'd. MAR. Not all so soon, dear brother; what, if a woman Now should turn Æsculapius, and restore This dumb Hippolitus? Nay, do not look strange, I dare avow and undertake the cure. EPIRE. You, sister! are you in your wits? MAR. Faith, of the outside of them, brother; yet a woman's tongue, Whose burthen still is superfluity, May lend a man an age's complement. CYP. Madam, I would not have you, with the lark, Play yourself into dare-net;[177] this great cure, I fear, is far beyond your physic's help. MAR. My lord, you know not how Apollo loves me; I have been thought as fair as Oenon was, And dare be bold to claim this miracle. CYP. Mariana, attend; Glory and ruin compass thee about. This hand shall raise thee to a golden throne, And grace thee with all styles of dignity: This cast thee down Lower than life's misfortune, and overwhelm Thy beauties with thy grave. Perform--be great: Fail, and be worse than worst calamity. QUEEN. Stay, gentle friend, my love doth bid thee stay; Attempt not, and be safe from misery. EPIRE. Sister, you shall not grasp with mischief thus; My blood doth challenge interest in your ill, And I conjure you from this desperateness. MAR. Brother, content yourself, words but augment our strife; I will perform, or else my pawn's my life.