_Dio._ Gods! what ails she? _Aur._ Generous and noble? Fie, thou liest most basely. Thy face, and all aspects upon thee, tell me Thou art a poor _Dalmatian_ Slave, a low thing, Not worth the name of _Roman_; stand off farther. _Dio._ What may this mean? _Aur._ Come hither, my _Endymion_; Come, shew thy self, and all eyes be blessed in thee. _Dio._ Ha? what is this? _Aur._ Thou fair star that I live by, Look lovely on me, break into full brightness; Look, here's a face now, of another making, Another mold; here's a divine proportion, Eyes fit for _Phoebus_ self to gild the World with; And there's a brow arch'd like the State of Heaven; Look how it bends, and with what radiance, As if the Synod of the gods sate under; Look there, and wonder; now behold that fellow, That admirable thing, cut with an Axe out. _Max._ Old Woman, though I cannot give thee recompence, Yet certainly, I'll make thy name as glorious. _Dio._ Is this in truth? _Char._ She is mad, and you must pardon her. _Dio._ She hangs upon him; see. _Char._ Her fit is strong now, Be not you passionate. _Dio._ She kisses. _Char._ Let her; 'Tis but the fondness of her fit. _Dio._ I am fool'd, And if I suffer this. _Char._ 'Pray ye, friend, be pacified, This will be off anon; she goes in. [_Exit_ Aurelia. _Dio._ Sirrah. _Max._ What say you, Sir? _Dio._ How dare thy lips, thy base lips? _Max._ I am your Kinsman, Sir, and no such base one; I sought no kisses, nor I had no reason To kick the Princess from me; 'twas no manners; I never yet compell'd her; of her courtesie, What she bestows, Sir, I am thankful for. _Dio._ Be gone, Villain. _Max._ I will, and I will go off with that glory, And magnifie my fate. [_Exit._ _Dio._ Good Brother, leave me, I am to my self a trouble now. _Char._ I am sorry for't; You'll find it but a woman-fit to try ye. _Dio._ It may be so, I hope so. _Char._ I am asham'd, and what I think I blush at. [_Exit._ _Dio._ What misery hath my fortune bred me? And how far must I suffer? Poor and low States, Though they know wants and hungers, know not these, Know not these killing Fates; little contents them, And with that little they live, Kings commanding, And ordering both their ends and loves. O Honour! How greedily men seek thee, and once purchased, How many Enemies to mans peace bringst thou! How many griefs and sorrows, that like sheers, Like fatal Sheers, are sheering off our lives still! How many sad Eclipses do we shine thorow! _Enter_ Delphia, Drusilla, _vail'd_. When I presum'd I was blessed in this fair woman. _Del._ Behold him now, and tell me how thou lik'st him.