_Dru._ Leave us, and not vouchsafe a parting kiss To her that in his hopes of greatness lives, And goes along with him in all his dangers? _Del._ I grant 'twas most inhumane. _Dru._ O, you give it Too mild a name; 'twas more than barbarous, And you a Partner in't. _Del._ I, _Drusilla_? _Dru._ Yes, You have blown his swoln Pride to that vastness, As he believes the Earth is in his fathom, This makes him quite forget his humble Being; And can I hope that he, that only fed With the imagin'd food of future Empire, Disdains even those that gave him means and life To nourish such desires, when he's possess'd Of his ambitious ends (which must fall on him, Or your Predictions are false) will ever Descend to look on me! _Del._ Were his intents Perfidious as the Seas or Winds, his heart Compos'd of falshood; yet the benefit, The greatness of the good he has from you, (For what I have confer'd, is thine, _Drusilla_) Must make him firm, and thankful; But if all Remembrance of the debts he stands engag'd for, Find a quick Grave in his Ingratitude, My powerful Art, that guides him to this height Shall make him curse the hour he e'r was rais'd, Or sink him to the Centre. _Dru._ I had rather Your Art could force him to return that ardour To me, I bear to him; or give me power To moderate my passions; yet I know not, I should repent your grant, though you had sign'd it, (So well I find he's worthy of all service) But to believe that any check to him In his main hopes, could yield content to me, Were treason to true love, that knows no pleasure, The object that it dotes on ill affected. _Del._ Pretty simplicity; I love thee for't, And will not sit an idle looker on, And see it cozen'd; dry thy innocent eyes, And cast off jealous fears, (yet promises Are but lip comfort) and but fancy ought That's possible in Nature, or in Art, That may advance thy comfort, and be bold To tell thy Soul 'tis thine; therefore speak freely. _Dru._ You new create me. To conceal from you My virgin-fondness, were to hide my sickness From my Physician. O dear Aunt, I languish For want of _Diocles_'s sight; he is the Sun That keeps my blood in a perpetual Spring; But in his absence, cold benumming Winter Seizes on all my faculties. Would you bind me (That am your Slave already) in more fetters, And (in the place of service) to adore you? O bear me then (but 'tis impossible, I fear to be effected) where I may See how my _Diocles_ breaks thorow his dangers, And in what heaps his honours flow upon him, That I may meet him, in the height and pride Of all his glories, and there (as your gift) Challenge him as mine own.