_Val._ Ye are welcome; Is there no Constancy in earthly things, No happiness in us, but what must alter? No life without the heavy load of Fortune? What miseries we are, and to our selves, Even then when full content seems to sit by us, What daily sores and sorrows! _Enter_ Alice. _Alice._ O dear Brother, The Gentleman if ever you will see him Alive as I think. _Enter_ Cellide. _Cel._ O he faints, for Heavens sake, For Heavens sake, Sir. _Val._ Go comfort him, dear Sister. [_Exit_ Alice. And one word, sweet, with you; then we'll go to him. What think you of this Gentleman? _Cel._ My pity thinks, Sir, 'Tis great misfortune that he should thus perish. _Val._ It is indeed, but _Cellide_, he must dye. _Cel._ That were a cruelty, when care may cure him, Why do you weep so, Sir? he may recover. _Val._ He may, but with much danger; my sweet _Cellide_, You have a powerful tongue. _Cel._ To do you service. _Val._ I will betray his grief; he loves a Gentlewoman, A friend of yours, whose heart another holds, He knows it too; yet such a sway blind fancy, And his not daring to deliver it, Have won upon him, that they must undo him: Never so hopeful and so sweet a Spirit, Misfortune fell so foul on. _Cel._ Sure she's hard hearted, That can look on, and not relent, and deeply At such a misery; she is not married? _Val._ Not yet. _Cel._ Nor near it? _Val._ When she please. _Cel._ And pray Sir, Does he deserve her truly, that she loves so? _Val._ His love may merit much, his Person little, For there the match lyes mangled. _Cel._ Is he your friend? _Val._ He should be, for he is near me. _Cel._ Will not he dye then, When th'other shall recover? _Val._ Ye have pos'd me. _Cel._ Methinks he should go near it, if he love her; If she love him. _Val._ She does, and would do equal. _Cel._ 'Tis a hard task you put me; yet for your sake I will speak to her, all the art I have; My best endeavours; all his Youth and Person, His mind more full of beauty; all his hopes The memory of such a sad example, Ill spoken of, and never old; the curses Of loving maids, and what may be alledg'd I'll lay before her: what's her Name? I am ready. _Val._ But will you deal effectually? _Cel._ Most truly; Nay, were it my self, at your entreaty. _Val._ And could ye be so pitiful? _Cel._ So dutiful; Because you urge it, Sir. _Val._ It may be then It is your self. _Cel._ It is indeed, I know it, And now know how ye love me.