_Alin._ I thank ye, Sir; peace guide your travels too, And what you wish for most, end all your troubles; Remember me by this: and in your prayers When your strong heart melts, meditate my poor fortunes. _Pil._ All my Devotions wait upon your service. _Alin._ Are you of this Country, Sir? _Pil._ Yes, worthiest Lady, But far off bred; my Fortunes farther from me. _Alin._ Gentle, I dare believe. _Pil._ I have liv'd freer. _Alin._ I am no inquisitor, that were too curious; Whatever Vow, or Penance pulls you on, Sir; Conscience, or Love, or stubborn Disobedience, The Saint ye kneel to, hear, and ease your travels. _Pil._ Yours ne'r begin; and thus I seal my Prayers. [_Exit._ _Alin._ How constantly this man looks! how he sighs! Some great affliction hatches his Devotions, Right holy Sir, how young, and sweet he suffers! _Jul._ Would I might suffer with him. _Alin._ He turns from us; Alas, he weeps too; something presses him He would reveal, but dare not; Sir, be comforted, Ye come for that; and take it; if it be want, Sir, To me ye appear so worthy of relieving, I am your Steward; Speak, and take; he's dumb still; Now as I have a faith, this man so stirs me, His modesty makes me afraid I have trespassed. _Jul._ Would he wou'd stir me too, I like his shape well. _Alin._ May be he would speak alone; go off, _Juletta_, Afflicted hearts fear their own motions. Be not far off. _Jul._ Would I were nearer to him, A young smug handsom holiness has no fellow. [_Exit._ _Al._ Why do you grieve? do you find your penance sharp? Or are the vows ye've made too mighty for ye? Does not the World allure ye to look back, And sorrow for the sweet time ye have lost? Ye are young, and fair; be not deluded, Sir, A manly made-up heart contemns these shadows, And yours appear no less, griefs for your fears, For hours ill-spent, for wrongs done rash, and rudely, For foul contempts, for faiths ill violated, Become fears well; I dare not task your goodness; And then a sorrow shews in his true glory, When the whole heart is excellently sorry, I pray ye be comforted. _Ped._ I am, dear Lady, And such a comfort ye have cast upon me, That though I struggle with mine own cal[a]mities Too mighty, and too many for my mannage, And though, like angry waves, they curl'd upon me, Contending proudly who should first devour me, Yet I would stem their danger. _Alin._ He speaks nobly; What do you want? _Ped._ All that can make me happy; I want my self. _Alin._ Your self? who rob'd ye, Pilgrim? Why does he look so constantly upon me? _I want my self_; indeed, ye holy Wanderers Are said to seek much, but to seek your selves-- _Ped._ I seek my self, and am but my selfs shadow, 'Have lost my self; and now am not so noble.