+Ler.+ My Lord Ascanio could have wish'd his life Might have been destin'd to a happier purpose, And charged me tell your lordship that he had Much rather have been lost with common dust In the cheap churchyard, than endanger'd fame In this great duel. +Flo.+ Sir, explain his reasons. +Ler.+ He calls to his sad thoughts the mischiefs, which This kingdom needs must fall into, when you Shall perish by his sword; for certainly You cannot 'scape it, thus provoking death. Then to what ruin may the queen, whose safety You both have labour'd, be engag'd? He could With patience almost suffer on his name The infamy of coward, rather than Hazard the quiet of her estate. But you---- +Flo.+ Let me consider: 'tis an idle rage That heats me to this quarrel. Let her fate Remain unshaken, though she choose my foe Into her love and bosom. If she live Above the fear of ruin, I am mighty-- Mighty enough, though by my griefs grown feeble, And weaken'd too: diseases fright the healthy. I will refer my cause and life to her, And ne'er dispute it by the sword. +Vel.+ My lord! +Flo.+ Velasco, I am safe enough against The taint of coward. Spain bears witness that I dare, as far as honour dares give warrant; But in this cause---- +Vel.+ My lord, you'll lose the glory Of all your former actions, and become The mirth of courtiers--empty things, who brawl, Not fight, if you return after a challenge Without performance. +Flo.+ 'Tis a serious truth. +Vel.+ Moreover, this young gentleman hath hope To talk you from your resolution. The Lord Ascanio will too much exult, If this way too he can o'ercome you. +Flo.+ It must not be, sir: tell my lord I wait His leisure. +Ler.+ And your lordship shall not have Reason to think it long. Prepare yourself. His only prayer is now that, when he comes, There may be no discourse to take up time; He hath desire the business may be all: What he can say hath been by me deliver'd. [_Exit._ +Flo.+ We will obey him. Tyrant Love! why is Thy cruelty so wanton, to delight In murder? Like that impious Roman prince, Thou joy'st to smother whom thou lov'st in roses, And stifle them with the choicest perfumes. But This is no place for reason; she may hold Dispute in sober schools, where study raises The soul to knowledge: here's the theatre For the brute part of man to fight his last. I must redeem the laurel fortune crown'd His temples with, or perish in th' attempt: My fate decrees it. _Enter +Ascanio+ and +Lerma+._ +Ler.+ Here's my Lord Ascanio. +Flo.+ Why doth he turn his face away, as if He durst not look on danger? Do his fears Now triumph o'er his courage? +Ler.+ Put it to the trial. [_They fight._