_Del._ Thou hast full need of blessing. 'Twas I, that at thy great Inauguration, Hung in the air unseen: 'twas I that honour'd thee With various Musicks, and sweet sounding airs: 'Twas I inspir'd the Souldiers heart with wonder, And made him throw himself, with love and duty, Low at thy feet: 'twas I that fix'd him to thee, But why did I all this? To keep thy honestie, Thy vow and faith; that once forgot and slighted _Aurelia_ in regard, the Marriage ready, The Priest and all the Ceremonies present, 'Twas I that thundred loud; 'twas I that threatned; 'Twas I that cast a dark face over heaven, And smote ye all with terrour. _Dru._ Yet consider, As ye are noble, as I have deserv'd ye; For yet ye are free: if neither faith nor promise, The deeds of elder times may be remembred, Let these new-dropping tears; for I still love ye, These hands held up to heaven. _Dio._ I must not pity ye; 'Tis not wise in me. _Del._ How? not wise? _Dio._ Nor honourable. A Princess is my Love, and doats upon me: A fair and lovely Princess is my Mistris. I am an Emperour: consider, Prophetess, Now my embraces are for Queens and Princesses, For Ladies of high mark, for divine beauties: To look so low as this cheap common sweetness, Would speak me base, my names and glories nothing. I grant I made a vow; what was I then? As she is now, of no sort, (hope made me promise) But now I am; to keep this vow, were monstrous, A madness, and a low inglorious fondness. _Del._ Take heed, proud man. _Drus._ Princes may love with Titles, But I with Truth. _Del._ Take heed; here stands thy destinie; Thy Fate here follows. _Dio._ Thou doating Sorceress, Wouldst have me love this thing, that is not worthy To kneel unto my Saint? to kiss her shadow? Great Princes are her slaves; selected beauties Bow at her beck: the mighty _Persian's_ Daughter (Bright as the breaking East, as mid-day glorious) Waits her commands, and grows proud in her pleasures. I'le see her honour'd: some Match I shall think of, That shall advance ye both; mean time I'll favour ye. [_Exit._ _Del._ Mean time I'le haunt thee. Cry not (wench) be confident, E're long, thou shalt more pity him (observe me) And pity him in truth, than now thou seek'st him: My art and I are yet companions. Come, Girl. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Geta, _Lictors._ _Get._ I am too merciful, I find it, friends, Of too soft a nature to be an Officer; I bear too much remorse. _1 Lict._ 'Tis your own fault, Sir; For look you, one so newly warm in Office Should lay about him blindfold, like true Justice, Hit where it will: the more ye whip and hang, Sir, (Though without cause; let that declare it self afterward) The more ye are admired.