+Pir.+ That blow did bleed Castile too weak, And left us in a faint and sickly pang. +Samp.+ The pulse, sir, of Castile beats in another temper, Than when you left it. +Pir.+ I find it: The city wears a cap, and looks As if all were not right there. +Samp.+ Except their wives. +Pir.+ The court, methinks, has strangely chang'd Complexion too. +Samp.+ Those that deride us say the clergy Has catch'd the falling-sickness: the court, a deep Consumption; and that the commons have the spleen. +Pir.+ I know not what disease the court has; but the Lords Look as if they had oversat themselves at play, And lost odds, so scurvily-- +Samp.+ How does your lordship find The ladies? +Pir.+ I ha' not been amongst 'em yet To take up my arrears: only had the court-happiness To kiss her hand, who in herself contracts them all For grace and lustre, the widow-duchess Claudilla. +Samp.+ Why, there my admiration leaves you; I grant her A brave and courtly girl; has trim and dazzle, Enough of white and red, to attract the eye, Like an indifferent copy, flourish'd with golden trails. But place your judgment nearer, it retreats, And cries you mercy for the mistake. At distance, She is a goodly landskip. +Pir.+ Alas, her blooming beauties Yet languish and pine o'er her husband's hearse, Like roses scatter'd from the morning's brow Into the day's parch'd lap. +Samp.+ Their spring will shine again; grow glorious And fruitful in the arms of her De Flame; It is my hearty wish to their affections; That count does bear an honour'd character From all that know him. +Pir.+ A brave young man; and one that is more honour To his title, than it to him. But when Must their hymeneal tapers flame, and she Offer her turtle pantings at the altar, Purpling the morn with blushes, as she goes; And scatter such bright rays, as the sun may Dress his beams with for that day's glory? +Samp.+ After He has deliver'd his sister to Dessandro's hand, He will not defer those minutes long; and he thinks himself Behind in some expression of their friendship, Until the knot meet there. +Pir.+ Cleara is a lady Of a sweet and honour'd fame. +Samp.+ All other of her sex Are dull and sullied imitations, pale glimmerings, Set by her. Whate'er the modest fictions Of sweet'ned pens has meant, she is their moral. +Pir.+ You speak like one that knows what virtue is, And can love it. _Enter +De Castro+ and +Dessandro+ to them._