+De L.+ O, your worthy friend, signior; and an elder in's parish; A pikeman too for the republic. Come, come, He shall be shoemaker to us all. Canst trust? +Latch.+ Trust, quotha! My name's Latchet, sir. I Serv'd eleven years to my vocation, before I Could be free, and have drunk many a good bowl Of beer i' th' duchess's cellar since that. +De L.+ I like a man can answer so punctually To a thing. +Latch.+ Thing, quotha! it is our trade, sir. +De L.+ Spoke like the warden of the company! [_Exeunt._ _Enter +Claudilla+, and +Dessandro+ in a nightgown._ +Claud.+ I am at extremity of wonder. +Des.+ The story may deserve it, lady; when you shall Cast your thoughts upon the man it treats on; The circumstances and progress of my love: Nay, it may raise your anger higher than your wonder; And work the modest pantings of your breast Into a hectic rage. I saw this tempest Gather'd in a cloud, dismal and black, ready to break Its womb in storms upon me; and I have cast My soul on every frown and horror you can arm Your passion with. I have held conflict with the wilder Guilt and tremblings of my blood to rescue it; but Heaven and my angry fate has thrown me grovelling At your feet; and I want soul to break the charm. +Claud.+ This is a strange mystery, to betray my virtue With your own; and I shall sin to hear it. +Des.+ If pity be a sin, lock up those beauties From the view of men; or they will damn all the Eyes that look upon you. +Claud.+ Has your blood lost all the virtue it should inherit? And think you by this treacherous siege to take My honour in? Let me shun you, or you will Talk me leprous. +Des.+ Do, madam. Tear up the wounds your eyes have made---- I'll keep them bleeding sacrifices to your cruelty. And when cold Death has cast his gloomy shade O'er this dust, perhaps you may bestow one gentle Sigh to hallow it: when you shall know The height of my desires was but to die worthy Of your pardon, without the ambition of a bolder thought: And still had scorch'd and smother'd here without A tongue, only to beg your mercy to my grave. +Claud.+ Play not yourself into a shame will rūst your brightest Worths, and hide your dust in curses and black fame: I now shall think your valour flatter'd, that can Sink it to such effeminate and lovesick crafts, For our stale women to mollify the usher with. Dessandro has a fame, high and active as the voice It flies on; and could you wander from your Religious self in such a dream as this? Cleara's virtue has an interest near your heart, Should wake you to your first man again. +Des.+ Cleara still is here in the first sculpture of Her virtues; and I their honourer.