_Char._ The Count's a handsome Gentleman, And having him, y'are certain of a fortune, A high and noble fortune to attend you: Where if you fling your Love upon this stranger This young _Arnoldo_, not knowing from what place Or honourable strain of blood he is sprung, you venture All your own sweets, and my long cares to nothing, Nor are you certain of his faith; why may not that Wander as he does, every where? _Zen._ No more Sir; I must not hear, I dare not hear him wrong'd thus, Vertue is never wounded, but I suffer. 'Tis an ill Office in your age, a poor one, To judge thus weakly: and believe your self too, A weaker, to betray your innocent Daughter, To his intemp'rate, rude, and wild embraces, She hates as Heaven hates falshood. _Rut._ A good wench, She sticks close to you Sir. _Zeno._ His faith uncertain? The nobleness his vertue springs from, doubted? D'ye doubt it is day now? or when your body's perfect, Your stomach's well dispos'd, your pulse's temperate, D'ye doubt you are in health? I tell you Father, One hour of this mans goodness, this mans Nobleness Put in the Scale, against the Counts whole being, Forgive his lusts too, which are half his life, He could no more endure to hold weight with him; _Arnoldo's_ very looks, are fair examples; His common and indifferent actions, Rules and strong ties of vertue: he has my first love, To him in sacred vow I have given this body, In him my mind inhabits. _Rut._ Good wench still. _Zeno._ And till he fling me off, as undeserving, Which I confess I am, of such a blessing, But would be loth to find it so-- _Arn._ O never; Never my happy Mistress, never, never, When your poor servant lives but in your favour, One foot i'th' grave the other shall not linger. What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service, What danger, of more dreadful look than death, What willing Martyrdom to crown me constant May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness? A love so Nobly great, no power can ruine; Most blessed Maid go on, the Gods that gave this, This pure unspotted love, the Child of Heaven, In their own goodness, must preserve and save it, And raise you a reward beyond our recompence. _Zeno._ I ask but you, a pure Maid to possess, And then they have crown'd my wishes: If I fall then Go seek some better love, mine will debase you. _Rut._ A pretty innocent fool; well, Governour, Though I think well of your custom, and could wish my self For this night in your place, heartily wish it: Yet if you play not fair play and above board too, I have a foolish gin here, I say no more; I'le tell you what, and if your honours guts are not inchanted. _Arn._ I should now chide you Sir, for so declining The goodness and the grace you have ever shew'd me, And your own vertue too, in seeking rashly To violate that love Heaven has appointed, To wrest your Daughters thoughts, part that affection That both our hearts have tyed, and seek to give it.