"Let it not wrong this letter, that it came From one that trembled to subscribe his name, Fearing your hate: O, let not hate descend, Nor make you cruel to so vow'd a friend. If you'll not promise love, grant but access, And let me know my woes are past redress. Be just, then, beauteous judge, and, like the laws, Condemn me not till you have heard my cause; Which, when you have, from those fair lips return Either my life in love, or death in scorn. Yours or not, PHILOCLES." Am I awake, or dream I? Is it true, Or does my flattering fancy but suggest What I most covet? PSEC. Madam, the words are there; I'll swear it can be no illusion. LEU. It is too good for truth. PHIL. Mock me not, fortune! She kiss'd it; saw'st thou her? O friend, she kiss'd it! CLER. And with a look that relish'd love, not scorn. LEU. This letter may be forg'd, I much desire To know the certainty; Psectas, thy help Must further me. PSEC. I'll not be wanting. LEU. Here comes my father; he must not see this. PSEC. No, nor your t'other sweetheart, he is with him yonder. _Enter_ POLYMETES, VIRRO, ROSCIO. POL. Nay, noble count, you are too old a soldier To take a maid's first no for a denial; They will be nice at first: men must pursue That will obtain: woo her, my lord, and take her; You have my free consent, if you get hers. Yonder she walks alone: go comfort her. VIR. I'll do the best I may, but we old men Are but cold comfort: I thank your lordship's love. POL. I wonder, Roscio, that the peevish girl Comes on so slowly; no persuasions That I can use do move: the setting forth Count Virro's greatness, wealth, and dignity, Seems not to affect her, Roscio. ROS. I doubt the cause, my lord; For were 't but[425] that, I dare engage my life She would be won to love him; she has plac'd Already her affections on some other. POL. How should I find it out? Ros. Why thus, my lord. There's never man nor woman that e'er lov'd, But chose some bosom friend, whose close converse Sweeten'd their joys, and eas'd their burden'd minds Of such a working secret. Thus, no doubt, Has my young lady done; and but her woman, Who should it be? 'tis she must out with it: Her secrecy, if wit cannot o'erreach, Gold shall corrupt; leave that to me, my lord. But if her lady's heart do yet stand free And unbequeath'd to any, your command And father's jurisdiction interpos'd Will make her love the count. No kind of means Must want to draw her. POL. Thou art my oracle, My brain, my soul, my very being, Roscio; Walk on and speed, while I but second thee. CLER. It is even so; Count Virro is your rival; See how th' old ape smugs up his mouldy chaps To seize the bit?