_Mount._ Dares she dispise me thus? me that with spoil And hazardous exploits, full sixteen years Have led (as hand-maids) Fortune, Victory Whom the _Maltezi_ call my servitors? Tempests I have subdued, and fought them calm, Out-lighten'd lightning in my Chivalry; Rid (tame as patience) billows that kick'd heaven, Whistl'd enraged _Boreas_ till his gusts Were grown so gentle, that he seem'd to sigh, Because he could not show the ayr my keel, And yet I cannot conquer her bright eyes, Which though they blaze both comfort, and invite Neither by force, nor fraud pass through her ear (Whose guard is only blushing Innocence) To take the least possession of her heart, Did I attempt her with a thred-bare name--unapt with meritorious actions, She might with colour dis-allow my suit: But by the honor of this Christian cross (In blood of Infidels so often dy'd) Which mine own Soul and Sword hath fixed here And neither favor, nor births priviledge _Oriana_ shall confess, although she be _Valettas_ Sister our Grand-master here, The wages of scorn'd Love is baneful hate, And if I rule not her, I'le rule her fate. _Rocca_, my trusty Servant, welcome. _Enter_ Rocca. _Roc._ Sir, I wish my news deserv'd it: hapless I That being lov'd, and trusted fail to bring The loving answer that you do expect. _Mount._ Why speak'st thou from me: thy pleas'd eyes send forth Beams brighter than the star that ushers day, Thy smiles, restore sick expectation. _Roc._ I bring you Sir, her smiles, not mine. _Mount._ Her smiles? Why they are presents for Kings eldest Sons, Great _Solyman_ that wearies his hot eyes, But to peruse his deck'd _Seraglio_, When from the number of his Concubines He chooseth one for that night in his pride Of them, wives, wealth, is not so rich as I In this one smile, from _Oriana_ sent. _Roc._ Sir, fare ye well. _Mount._ Oh _Rocca_! thou art wise, And woul[d]'st not have the torrent of my joy Ruine me headlong; aptly thou conceiv'st If one reviving smile can raise me thus, What trances will the sweet words which thou bring'st Cast me into? I felt (my dearest friend, No more my Servant) when I imployed thee That knew'st to look, and speak as Lovers should, And carry faithfully thy Masters sighs, That it must work some heat in her cold heart, And all my labors now come fraughted home With ten fold prize. _Roc._ Will you yet hear me?