_Maria._ Good Sir forbear, I am now fully sensible of running Into a violent Lethargy, whose deadliness Locks up all reason, I shall never henceforth Remember my past happiness. _Ment._ These clouds may be disperst. _Maria._ I fear continuall night Will over-shroud me, yet poor youth his trespass Lies in his fortune, not the cruelty Of the Duke's sentence. _Cla._ I dare think it does. _Maria._ If all fail I will learn thee to conquer Adversity with sufferance. _Ment._ You resolve Nobly. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter Cesario and a Servant._ _Cesar._ Let any friend have entrance. _Servant._ Sir a'shall. _Cesar._ Any, I except none. _Serv._ We know, your mind Sir. [--_Exit._ _Cesar._ Pleasures admit no bounds. I am pitcht so high To such a growth of full prosperities That to conceal my fortunes were an injury To gratefulness, and those more liberall favours By whom my glories prosper. He that flowes In gracious and swolne tydes of best abundance, Yet will be Ignorant of his own fortunes, Deserves to live contemn'd, and dye forgotten; The harvest of my hopes is now already Ripen'd and gather'd, I can fatten youth With choice of plenty, and supplies of comforts, My fate springs in my own hand, and I'll use it. _Enter 2 Servants and Biancha._ _1_ 'Tis my place. _2_ Yours? here fair one, I'll aquaint my Lord. _1_ He's here, go to him boldly. _2_ Please you to let him understand how readily I waited on your errand? _1_ Saucy fellow, you must excuse his breeding. _Cesar._ What's the matter? _Biancha_, my _Biancha_, to your offices. [_Exit Ser._ This visit (Sweet) from thee (my pretty dear) By how much more 'twas unexpected, comes So much the more timely: witness this free welcome, What ere occasion led thee. _Bian._ You must guess Sir, Yet indeed 'tis a rare one. _Ces._ Prethee speak it, my honest virtuous maid. _Bian._ Sir I have heard Of your misfortunes, and I cannot tell you Whether I have more cause of joy or sadness, To know they are a truth. _Ces._ What truth _Biancha_? misfortunes, how, wherein? _Bian._ You are disclaym'd For being the Lord _Alberto's_ Son, and publickly Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is, It cannot chuse but greive ye. _Ces._ Greive me? Ha ha ha ha? Is this all? _Bian._ This all? _Ces._ Thou art sorry for't I warrant thee: alas good soul, _Biancha_, That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness, My happiness _Biancha_. _Bian._ If you love me, it may prove mine too. _Ces._ May it? I will love thee. My good, good maid, If that can make thee happy, Better and better love thee.