_Cos._ Now by the _Persian_ gods, most truly welcome, Encompass'd thus with tributary Kings, I entertain you. Lend your helping hands To seat her by me; and thus rais'd, bow all To do her honour; O my best _Cassana_, Sister, and Partner of my Life and Empire, We'll teach thee to forget with present pleasures Thy late Captivity; and this proud _Roman_, That us'd thee as a Slave, and did disdain A Princely Ransome, shall, if she repine, Be forc'd by various Tortures, to adore What she of late contemn'd. _Cas._ All greatness ever Attend _Cosroe_; though _Persia_ be styl'd The Nurse of Pomp and Pride, we'll leave to _Rome_ Her native Cruelty. For know, _Aurelia_, A Roman Princess, and a _Cæsars_ Sister Though late, like thee captiv'd, I can forget Thy barbarous usage; and though thou to me (When I was in thy power) didst shew thy self, A most insulting Tyranness, I to thee May prove a gentle Mistriss. _Aur._ O my Stars, A Mistriss? can I live and owe that name To flesh and blood? I was born to command, Train'd up in Soveraignty; and I, in death Can quit the name of Slave; she that scorns life, May mock Captivity. _Char. Rome_ will be _Rome_ When we are nothing; and her power's the same Which you once quak'd at. _Max. Dioclesian_ lives; Hear it and tremble; Lives (thou King of _Persia_) The Master of his Fortune, and his Honour; And though by devilish arts we were surpriz'd, And made the prey of Magick and of Theft, And not won nobly, we shall be redeem'd, And by a _Roman_ War; and every wrong We suffer here, with interest, be return'd On the insulting doer. _1 Per._ Sure these _Romans_ Are more than men. _2 Per._ Their great hearts will not yield, They cannot bend to any adverse Fate, Such is their Confidence. _Cos._ They then shall break. Why, you rebellious Wretches, dare you still Contend when the last breath, or nod of mine Marks you out for the fire? or to be made The prey of Wolves or Vulturs? the vain name Of _Roman_ Legions, I slight thus, and scorn; And for that boasted bug bear, _Dioclesian_, (Which you presume on) would he were the master But of the spirit, to meet me in the field, He soon should find that our immortal Squadrons, That with full numbers ever are supply'd, (Could it be possible they should decay) Dare front his boldest Troops, and scatter him, As an high towring Falcon on her stretches, Severs the fearful fowl. And by the Sun, The Moon, the Winds, the nourishers of life, And by this Sword, the instrument of death, Since that you fly not humbly to our mercy But yet dare hope your liberty by force; If _Dioclesian_ dare not attempt To free you with his Sword, all slavery That cruelty can find out to make you wretched, Falls heavy on you.