POL. Well, I believe thee, wench, and will reward Thy trust[428] in this: go, get thee in again, And bring me word when Philocles is come, [_Exit_ PSECTAS. Sir, you'll be secret to our purpose? EUG. As your own breast, my lord? POL. I shall rest thankful to you: This stranger must be sooth'd, lest he mar all. ROS. This was well found out, my lord: you now have means to take your enemy. POL. Which bless'd occasion I will so pursue, As childless Euphues shall for ever rue. Rise in thy blackest look, direst Nemesis, Assistant to my purpose, help me glut My thirsty soul with blood! This bold young man To his rash love shall sacrifice his life. ROS. What course do you intend to ruin him? POL. Why, kill him presently. ROS. O no, my lord, You'll rue that action: think not that the law Will let such murder sleep unpunish'd. POL. Should I then let him go, when I have caught him? ROS. Yes, sir; to catch him faster, and more safely. POL. How should that be? Speak, man. ROS. Why thus, my lord? You know the law speaks death to any man That steals an heir without her friend's consent: Thus must he do, his love will prompt him to it. For he can never hope by your consent To marry her; and she, 'tis like, will give Consent, for women's love is violent: Then mark their passage, you shall easily find How to surprise them at your will, my lord. POL. Thou art my oracle, dear Roscio. _Enter_ PSECTAS. Here's Psectas come again. How now, what news? PSEC. My lord, they both are coming; please you withdraw, You shall both hear and see what you desire. _Enter_ PHILOCLES _and_ LEUCOTHOË. LEU. Y' are welcome, noble sir; and, did my power Answer my love, your visitation Should be more free, and your deserved welcome Express'd in better fashion. PHIL. Best of ladies, It is so well, so excellently well, Coming from your wish'd love, my barren thanks, Want language for't! there lies in your fair looks More entertainment than in all the pomp That the vain Persian ever taught the world. Your presence is the welcome I expected, That makes it perfect. LEU. 'Tis your noble thought Makes good what's wanting here; but, gentle friend-- For so I now dare call you. POL. 'Tis well, minion; you are bold enough, I see, To choose your friends without my leave. [_Aside._ PHIL. 'Tis my ambition ever to be yours. LEU. Think me not light, dear Philocles, so soon To grant thee love, that others might have sought With eagerest pursuit, and not obtain'd. But I was yours by fate, and long have been: Before you woo'd, Leucothoë was won, And yours without resistance. PHIL. O my stars! 'Twas your kind influence that, whilst I slept In dullest ignorance, contriv'd for me The way to crown me with felicity.