_Vir._ Prethee to bed; to be thus fond's more tedious Than if I were neglected. _Jul._ 'Tis the fault then Of Love and Duty, which I would fall under, Rather than want that care which you may challenge As due to my obedience. _Vir._ I confess This tenderness argues a loving Wife, And more deserves my hearts best thanks, than anger. Yet I must tell ye Sweet, you do exceed In your affection, if you would ingross me To your delights alone. _Jul._ I am not jealous, If my embraces have distasted you, As I must grant you every way so worthy That 'tis not in weak woman to deserve you, Much less in miserable me, that want Those graces, some more fortunate are stor'd with. Seek any whom you please, and I will study With my best service to deserve those favors, That shall yield you contentment. _Vir._ You are mistaken. _Jul._ No, I am patient Sir, and so good morrow; I will not be offensive. _Vir._ Hear my reasons. _Jul._ Though in your life a widdows bed receives me, For your sake I must love it. May she prosper That shall succeed me in it, and your ardor Last longer to her. _Vir._ By the love I bear, First to my Countreys peace; next to thy self To whom compar'd, my life I rate at nothing; Stood here a Lady that were the choice abstract Of all the beauties nature ever fashion'd, Or Art gave ornament to, compar'd to thee, Thus as thou art obedient and loving, I should contemn and loath her. _Jul._ I doe believe. How I am blest In my assur'd belief! this is unfeign'd; And why this sadness then? _Vir._ Why _Juliana_, Believe me, these my sad and dull retirements, My often, nay almost continued Fasts, Sleep banisht from my eyes, all pleasures, strangers, Have neither root nor growth from any cause That may arrive at Woman. Shouldst thou be, As chastity forbid, false to my bed, I should lament my fortune, perhaps punish Thy falshood, and then study to forget thee: But that which like a never-emptied spring, Feeds high the torrent of my swelling grief, Is what my Countrey suffers; there's a ground Where sorrow may be planted, and spring up, Through yielding rage, and womanish despair, And yet not shame the owner. _Jul._ I do believe it true, Yet I should think my self a happy woman, If, in this general and timely mourning, I might or give to you, or else receive A little lawful comfort.