_Queen._ Death is unwelcome never, Unless it be to tortur'd minds and sick souls, That make their own Hells; 'tis such a benefit When it comes crown'd with honour, shews so sweet too! Though they paint it ugly, that's but to restrain us, For every living thing would love it else, Fly boldly to their peace ere Nature call'd 'em; The Rest we have from labour, and from trouble Is some Incitement, every thing alike, The poor Slave that lies private has his liberty, As amply as his Master, in that Tomb The Earth as light upon him, and the flowers That grow about him, smell as sweet, and flourish. But when we love with honour to our ends, When Memory and Vertue are our Mourners; What pleasure's there! they are infinite, _Evanthe_; Only, my vertuous Wench, we want our senses, That benefit we are barr'd, 'twould make us proud else, And lazy to look up to happier life, The Blessings of the people would so swell us. _Evan._ Good Madam, dress me, you have drest my soul, The merriest Bride I'll be for all this misery, The proudest to some Eyes too. _Queen._ 'Twill do better, come, shrink no more. _Evan._ I am too confident. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Frederick, _and_ Sorano. _Sor._ You are too remiss and wanton in your angers, You mold things handsomely; and then neglect 'em; A powerful Prince should be constant to his power still, And hold up what he builds, then People fear him: When he lets loose his hand it shews a weakness, And men examine or contemn his greatness: A scorn of this high kind should have call'd up A revenge equal, not a pity in you. _Fred._ She is thy Sister. _Sor._ And she were my Mother, Whilst I conceive 'tis you she has wrong'd, I hate her, And shake her nearness off; I study, Sir, To satisfie your angers that are just, Before your pleasures. _Fred._ I have done that already, I fear has pull'd too many curses on me.