+Pir.+ As you please to dispose me; my business Now designs it so: 'Tis there, in short. [_Gives a paper, which +Dessandro+ reads._ I love this gallant mastery of a man's self: I look'd his temper would have flam'd about my ears. Not a sparkle in his brow, nor the least change of blood. Strange! I have seen him ruffl'd into a storm, And all fury: now, not a frown nor smile! +Des.+ De Flame? Well, My lord, this is a down-flat challenge. +Pir.+ I brought it for one. +Des.+ I accept it, with thanks to your lordship, and shall be Ready to serve you in any power I have. +Pir.+ 'Tis not worth it, colonel. +Des.+ The Lord de Flame's angry, it seems, that Fortune should Give me right without his hand in't; he has turn'd his style High and strangely on me: But I shall coolly respite That, till we have room to argue it. That he is Far more worthy his expectations in the duchess, I can Confess: that's no assent, sir, to my quarrel, nor yet A law to her. For those, whom her thoughts please To think most worthy, are so to her. +Pir.+ But does not bind the opinion of another. +Des.+ Nor that opinion her freedom. +Pir.+ Yet there be rules in virtue, from which all noble Judgments should take their level, even in love itself. +Des.+ If it be thought she's too partial in her grace To me, I shall dispute it, as 'tis question'd. +Pir.+ I come not to add exceptions, or to make any. +Des.+ I stand not in so cheap a rank, but that her Favour may make my services as meritorious As his lordship's, and can engage as much blood and Fame for't. +Pir.+ You know him of a noble breast, and one That will not flatter weak pretences into truths; Nor let 'em work with such impressions on his soul, Did not his honour bleed in't. Sir, I come, As one that ever honour'd your great parts, And wish that you could think on't o'er again. Think how black you must expect that morn to rise Upon your wishes, when you lead her to the altar; Where the faint lights with blue and ghastly flames Will receive ye; and all the things of holy ceremony Present pale glimmerings to your eyes, to fright your bride Back unto her first vows. And then, methinks, Each tear and groan the fair Cleara sends To overtake ye, should show a speaking fury To untwine your trembling hands. +Des.+ No; nor all the squadrons hell can spare To aid them--though her brother led them on, And you brought up the rear! +Pir.+ Sir!