_Lis._ She is asleep, Fierce Love hath clos'd his lights, I may look on her, Within her eyes 'has lockt the graces up, I may behold and live; how sweet she breaths! The orient morning breaking out in odours Is not so full of perfumes, as her breath is; She is the abstract of all Excellence, and scorns a Parallel. _Cal._ Who's there? _Lis._ Your servant, your most obedient slave (adored Lady) That comes but to behold those eyes again, And pay some Vows I have to sacred Beauty, And so pass by; I am blind as ignorance, And know not where I wander, how I live, Till I receive from their bright influence Light to direct me, for Devotions sake, You are the Saint I tread these holy steps to, And holy Saints are all relenting sweetness, Be not enrag'd, nor be not angry with me; The greatest attribute of Heaven is mercy; And 'tis the Crown of Justice, and the glory Where it may kill with right, to save with pity. _Cal._ Why do you kneel? I know you come to mock me, T'upbraid me with the benefits you have giv'n me, Which are too many, and too mighty, Sir, For my return; and I confess 'tis justice, That for my cruelty you should despise me, And I expect however you are calm now, A foyl you strive to set your cause upon, It will break out; _Calista_ is unworthy, Coy, proud, disdainful, I acknowledge all, Colder of Comfort than the frozen North is, And more a stranger to _Lisanders_ worth, His youth and faith, than it becomes her gratitude, I blush to grant it, yet take this along, A soveraign medicine to allay displeasure, May be an argument to bring me off too; She is married, and she is chaste; how sweet that sounds! How it perfumes all air 'tis spoken in! O dear _Lisander_! would you break this union? _Lis._ No, I adore it; let me kiss your hand, And seal the fair faith of a Gentleman on it. _Cal._ You are truly valiant, would it not afflict ye To have the horrid name of Coward touch you? Such is the Whore to me. _Lis._ I nobly thank ye; And may I be the same when I dishonour ye; This I may do again. [_Kissing her hand._ _Cal._ Ye may, and worthily; Such comforts Maids may grant with modesty, And neither make her poor nor wrong her bounty; Noble _Lisander,_ how fond now am I of ye! I heard you were hurt. _Lis._ You dare not heal me, Lady? I am hurt here; how sweetly now she blushes! Excellent Objects kill our sight, she blinds me; The Roses in the pride of _May_ shew pale to her; O Tyrant, Custom! and O Coward, Honour! How ye compel me to put on mine own Chains! May I not kiss ye now in superstition? For you appear a thing that I would kneel to; Let me err that way. [_Kisses her._