_Gen._ I am wounded too, Though modesty forbids that I should speak What ignorance makes him bold in: why do you fix Your eyes so strongly on me? _Luc._ Pray you stand still, There is nothing else, that is worth the looking on: I could adore you, Lady. _Gen._ Can you love me? _Luc._ To wait on you, in your chamber, and but touch What you, by wearing it, have made divine, Were such a happiness. I am resolved, I'll sell my liberty to you for this glove, And write my self your slave. _Enter_ Lamorall. _Gen._ On easier terms, Receive it as a friend. _Lam._ How! giving favor! I'll have it with his heart. _Gen._ What will you do? _Luc._ As you are merciful, take my life rather. _Gen._ Will you depart with't so? _Lam._ Do's that grieve you? _Gen._ I know not: but even now you appear valiant. _Luc._ 'Twas to preserve my father: in his cause I could be so again. _Gen._ Not in your own? Kneel to thy Rival and thine enemy? Away unworthy creature, I begin To hate my self, for giving entrance to A good opinion of thee: for thy torment, If my poor beauty be of any power, Mayst thou doat on it desperately: but never Presume to hope for grace, till thou recover And wear the favor that was ravish'd from thee. _Lam._ He wears my head too then. _Gen._ Poor fool, farewell. [_Exit._ _Luc._ My womanish soul, which hitherto hath govern'd This coward flesh, I feel departing from me; And in me by her beauty is inspir'd A new, and masculine one: instructing me What's fit to do or suffer; powerful love That hast with loud, and yet a pleasing thunder Rous'd sleeping manhood in me, thy new creature, Perfect thy work so that I may make known Nature (though long kept back) will have her own. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Lamorall _and_ Lucio. _Lam._ Can it be possible, that in six short hours The subject still the same, so many habits Should be remov'd? or this new _Lucio_, he That yesternight was baffeld and disgrac'd, And thank'd the man that did it, that then kneeld And blubber'd like a woman, should now dare On terms of honor seek reparation For what he then appear'd not capable of? _Luc._ Such miracles, men that dare do injuries Live to their shames to see, and for punishment And scourge to their proud follies. _Lam._ Prethee leave me: Had I my Page, or foot-man here to flesh thee, I durst the better hear thee. _Luc._ This scorn needs not: And offer such no more. _Lam._ Why say I should, You'll not be angry? _Luc._ Indeed I think I shall, Would you vouchsafe to shew your self a Captain, And lead a little farther, to some place That's less frequented. _Lam._ He looks pale.