_Evan._ I do Sir, and I count it a great offer. _Fred._ Any of thine. _Evan._ 'Tis like enough you may clap honour on them, But how 'twill sit, and how men will adore it, Is still the question. I'le tell you what they'l say, Sir, What the report will be, and 'twill be true too, And it must needs be comfort to your Master, These are the issues of her impudence: I'le tell your Grace, so dear I hold the Queen, So dear that honour that she nurs'd me up in, I would first take to me, for my lust, a Moor, One of your Gally-slaves, that cold and hunger, Decrepit misery, had made a mock-man, Than be your Queen. _Fred._ You are bravely resolute. _Evan._ I had rather be a Leper, and be shun'd, And dye by pieces, rot into my grave, Leaving no memory behind to know me, Than be a high Whore to eternity. _Fre._ You have another Gamester I perceive by ye, You durst not slight me else. _Sor._ I'le find him out, Though he lye next thy heart hid, I'le discover him, And ye proud peat, I'le make you curse your insolence. _Val._ Tongue of an Angel, and the truth of Heaven, How am I blest! [_Exit_ Val. _Sor. Podramo_ go in hast To my Sisters Gentlewoman, you know her well, And bid her send her Mistris presently The lesser Cabinet she keeps her Letters in, And such like toyes, and bring it to me instantly. Away. _Pod._ I am gone. [_Exit._ _Enter the Queen with two Ladies._ _Sor._ The Queen. _Fred._ Let's quit the place, she may grow jealous. [_Ex._ Fred. Sorano. _Queen._ So suddenly departed! what's the reason? Does my approach displease his Grace? are my eyes So hateful to him? or my conversation Infected, that he flies me? Fair _Evanthe_, Are you there? then I see his shame. _Evan._ 'Tis true, Madam, 'Thas pleas'd his goodness to be pleasant with me. _Que._ 'Tis strange to find thy modesty in this place, Does the King offer fair? does thy face take him? Ne'r blush _Evanthe_, 'tis a very sweet one, Does he rain gold, and precious promises Into thy lap? will he advance thy fortunes? Shalt thou be mighty, Wench? _Evan._ Never mock, Madam; 'Tis rather on your part to be lamented, At least reveng'd, I can be mighty Lady, And glorious too, glorious and great, as you are. _Que._ He will Marry thee? _Evan._ Who would not be a Queen, Madam? _Que._ 'Tis true _Evanthe_, 'tis a brave ambition, A golden dream, that may delude a good mind, What shall become of me? _Evan._ You must learn to pray, Your age and honour will become a Nunnery. _Que._ Wilt thou remember me? [_Weeps._