_Mar._ Pray leave me: you are Romans, honest men, Keep me not company, I am turn'd knave, Have lost my fame and nature. _Athens, Athens_, This _Dorigen_ is thy _Palladium_: He that will sack thee, must betray her first, Whose words wound deeper than her husbands sword; Her eyes make captive still the Conqueror, And here they keep her only to that end. O subtill devil, what a golden ball Did tempt, when thou didst cast her in my way! Why, foolish _Sophocles_, broughtst thou not to field Thy Lady, that thou mightst have overcome? _Martius_ had kneel'd, and yielded all his wreathes That hang like Jewels on the seven-fold hill, And bid _Rome_, send him out to fight with men, (For that she knew he durst) and not 'gainst Fate Or Deities, what mortal conquers them? Insatiate _Julius_, when his Victories Had run ore half the world, had he met her, There he had stopt the legend of his deeds, Laid by his Arms, been overcome himself, And let her vanquish th' other half. And fame Made beauteous _Dorigen_, the greater name. Shall I thus fall? I will not; no, my tears Cast on my heart, shall quench these lawless fires: He conquers best, conquers his lewd desires. _Enter Dorigen, with Ladyes._ _Dor._ Great Sir, my Lord commands me visit you, And thinks your retir'd melancholy proceeds From some distast of worthless entertainment. Will't please you take your chamber? how d'ye do, Sir? _Mar._ Lost, lost again; the wild rage of my blood Doth Ocean-like oreflow the shallow shore Of my weak virtue: my desire's a vane, That the least breath from her turns every way. _Dor._ What says my Lord? _Mar._ Dismiss your women, pray, And I'll reveal my grief. _Dor._ Leave me. _Mar._ Long tales of love (whilst love it self Might be enjoyed) are languishing delays. There is a secret strange lies in my brest, I will partake wi' you, which much concerns Your Lord, your self, and me. Oh! _Dor._ Strange secrets, Sir, Should not be made so cheap to strangers: yet, If your strange secret do no lower lie Then in your brest, discover it. _Mar._ I will. Oh! can you not see it, Lady, in my sighs? _Dor._ Sighs none can paint, and therefore who can see? _Mar._ Scorn me not, _Dorigen_, with mocks: _Alcides_, That master'd monsters, was by beautie tam'd, _Omphale_ smil'd his club out of his hand, And made him spin her smocks. O sweet, I love you, And I love _Sophocles_: I must enjoy you, And yet I would not injure him.