+The Queen of Arragon.+ +Decastro+, _General of the Forces of Arragon, in love with the queen_. +Ossuna+, _friend to Decastro_. +Florentio+, _General of the Forces of Castile, enamoured of the queen_. +Velasco+, _a great commander under Florentio_. +Ascanio+, _the King of Castile disguised_. +Lerma+, _a nobleman privy to his disguise_. +Oniate+, _a sober courtier_. +Sanmartino+, _a half-witted lord_. +Browfildora+, _dwarf to Sanmartino_. +Floriana+, _wife to Sanmartino_. +Cleantha+, _a witty court-lady_. +Captain.+ +Servants.+ _Several +Soldiers+._ THE QUEEN OF ARRAGON.[272] ACT I., SCENE I. _Enter +Sanmartino+ and +Cleantha+._ +Cle.+ My lord, let's change the subject: love is worn So threadbare out of fashion, and my faith So little leans to vows---- +San.+ The rage of time Or sickness first must ruin that bright fabric Nature took pride to build. +Cle.+ I thank my youth then For the tender of your service; 'tis the last Good turn it did me. But by this my fears Instruct me, when the old bald man, call'd Time, Comes stealing on me, and shall steal away What you call beauty, my neglected face Must be enforc'd to go in quest for a new Knight-errant. +San.+ Slander not my constant faith, Nor doubt the care Fate hath to stop the motion Of envious Time, might it endanger so Supreme a beauty. +Cle.+ Sure, my lord, Fate hath More serious business, or divines make bold T' instruct us in a schism. But grant I could Induce myself (which I despair I shall) To hear and talk that empty nothing Love, Is't now in season, when an army lies Before our city-gates, and every hour A battery expected? Dear my lord, Let's seal our testament, and prepare for heaven; And, as I am inform'd by them who seem To know some part o' th' way, Love's not the nearest Path that leads thither. +San.+ Madam, he is but A coward lover whom or death or hell Can fright from's mistress: and, for danger now Threat'ning the city, how can I so arm Myself, as by your favour proof against All stratagems of war? +Cle.+ Your lordship then Shall walk as safe as if a Lapland witch (You will not envy me the honour of The metaphor) preserv'd you shot-free. But Who is your confessor? Yet spare his name; His function will forgive the glory of it: Sure he's ill-read in cases to allow A married lord the freedom of this courtship. +San.+ Can you think, madam, that I trust my sins (But virtues are those loves I pay your beauty) To th' counsel of a cassock? Who hath art To judge of my confession, must have had At least a privy chamberer to his father. We of the court commit not, as the vulgar, Dull, ignorant sins: then, that I'm married, madam, Is rather safety to our love.