+Flo.+ Speak but those words again, and seat me in An orb above corruption! O, confirm Your thoughts but with a promise. +Queen.+ How, a promise! I shall repent my favour if I hear A syllable which sounds like that. Upon My marriage-day I have vowed to bring myself A free oblation to the holy altar; Not, like a fearful debtor, tender low[283] To save my bond. My lord, I must not hear One whisper of a promise. +Flo.+ I'm silent, And use me as your vassal; for a title More glorious I shall never covet. But---- +Queen.+ No jealousy, my lord. _Enter +Lerma+._ +Ler.+ Your majesty Is great in mercy; and I hope a stranger Shall meet it, if his speech be an offence. +Queen.+ Your pleasure, sir? +Ler.+ The Lord Ascanio charg'd [_Kneels._ Me fall yet lower, if the earth would license; For to so high a majesty obedience Cannot bend down enough: then he commanded, I, in his name, should beg the honour for him, Before he take his journey from your country, To kiss your hand. +Queen.+ Pray, sir, let's know the hour; But let it not be sudden. Years should sweat In preparation for his entertainment, And poets rack invention, till it reach Such praises as would reach the victories Of th' old heroes. +Ler.+ Madam, if his arm Did actions worthy memory, it receiv'd An influence from your quarrel, in the which A dwarf might triumph o'er an army. But He humbly craves his audience may not be With crowd and noise, as to embassadors; But with that silence which befits his business, For 'tis of moment. +Queen.+ Sir, we will obey His own desires, though ours could wish his welcome With a full ceremony. I attend him. [_Exit +Lerma+._ +Flo.+ Madam, this stranger---- +Queen.+ Pray, my lord, let love Not interrupt your business. I believe, The army which Decastro so expected Being now arriv'd, your soldiers tired, the city Ill-settled in her faith, much counsel will Be needful. When your leisure shall permit, Our joy shall be to see you. +Flo.+ I'm all obedience. [_Exeunt +Queen+ and +Florentio+ at several doors._ _Manet +Sanmartino+ and +Cleantha+._ +San.+ And when, sweet madam, will you crown our joys? Let's not, like riotous gamesters, throw away The treasure of our time: appoint the hour, The hour which must wear garlands of delight, By which we'll make't the envy of the age. +Cle.+ My lord, what mean you? +San.+ What all fine lords mean Who have plenty, youth and title. +Cle.+ But my fame! +San.+ 'Tis the fool's bugbear. +Cle.+ Then my conscience! +San.+ A scarecrow for old wives, whom wrinkles make Religious. +Cle.+ What will the court say?