CLE. But, sir, remember what a strait we're in: It will concern us to invent some way To save my sister, though the shepherd die; He will deserve it for his bold attempt. EUB. Go, take thy way, whither thou wilt, thyself; That way is best which leads me to my grave. [_Exit._ CLE. What luck is this? This is more haste than speed: I am resolv'd, though my life lie at stake, To stand the fury of th' enraged king: Who knows but he may be as sorry for His sudden act, as I for mine. 'Tis here To save her, though it cost her lover dear. [_Exeunt._ SCENA III. SYLVIA, THYRSIS. Nay, stay a little, Thyrsis; we are safe. My wary keepers now are with the king. THYR. Madam, for my poor self I do not fear; But when I think on you, and how your name And state, that is so eminent, must needs Receive a certain scandal and foul blot If we be seen together, blame me not, Though I do fear or doubt. What cruel fate, Angry with men, that gave us hearts alike And fortunes so asunder? You're a cedar, I a poor shrub, that may look up unto you With adoration, but ne'er reach your height. SYL. But, Thyrsis, I do love you. Love and death Do not much differ; they make all things equal: The monuments of kings may show for them What they have been; but look upon their dust-- The colour and the weight of theirs and beggars' You'll find the same: and if, 'mongst living men, Nature has printed in the face of many The characters of nobleness and worth, Whose fortune envies them a worthy place In birth or honour, when the greatest men, Whom she has courted, bear the marks of slaves, Love (sure,) will look on those, and lay aside The accidents of wealth and noble blood, And in our thoughts will equal them with kings. THYR. 'Tis true, divinest lady, that the souls Of all men are alike, of the same substance, By the same Maker into all infus'd; But yet the several matters which they work on-- How different they are, I need not tell you. And as these outward organs give our souls Or more or less room, as they are contriv'd, To show their lustre, so again comes fortune And darkens them, to whom the gods have given A soul divine and body capable Of that divinity and excellence. But 'tis the order of the Fates, whose causes We must not look into. But you, dear madam, Nature and fortune have conspir'd to make The happiest alive. SYL. Ah me most wretched! What pleasure can there be in highest state, Which is so cross'd in love--the greatest good The gods can tell how to bestow on men? THYR. Yet some do reckon it the greatest ill, A passion of the mind, form'd in the fancy, And bred to be the worst disease of reason.