_Iag._ The Heauens to crowne his ioy, With Immortalitie in his happie Issue Sent him two Royall sonnes, of whom the eldest Was the sweet Prince _Lusyppus_. Was! oh me, That euer I should liue to say, he was: He was, but is not now, for he is dead. The yongest was _Lorenzo_, for his yeeres, The pride and glory of Sicilians, And miracle of Nature, whose aspect, Euen like a Comet, did attract all eyes With admiration, wonder and amazement, And he good Prince, is lost, or worse, I feare: But for his Daughter faire _Leonida_, Her Fame not able to be circumscrib’d Within the bounds of Sicilie, hath gone Beyond the Pirean Mountaines, and brought backe The chiefe Italian Princes, but their Loues Were quitted with contempt and crueltie: And many of our braue Sicilian Youths Haue sacrific’d their liues to her disdaine. Now to preuent the like euent hereafter, ’Twas thought fit her libertie should be awhile restraind, For which intent, his Highnesse hath elected The Lord _Nicanor_ for her Guardian, Who, ’tis thought, shall after his decease, Espouse the Princesse, and be heire of Sicill. _Lor._ You told me of a Prince, you said was lost, Which you pronounc’d so feelingly, as if It had beene your losse in particular. _Iag._ Oh, it was mine, and euery good mans else, That is oblig’d to vertue and desert. _Lor._ See how Report is subiect to abuse. I knew the Prince _Lorenzo_. _Iag._ Did you, Sir? _Lor._ But neuer knew in him any one sparke Of worth or merit, that might thus inflame The zeale of your affection. _Iag._ Traytor, thou lyest. Which I will proue eu’n to thy heart, thou ly’st, I tell thee, thou hast committed such a sinne Against his deare Report, that thy base life Is farre too poore to expiate that wrong. Sir, will you draw? _Lor._ Forbeare, incensed man. I doe applaud Thy noble courage, and I tell you, Sir, The Prince _Lorenzo_ was a man I lou’d As dearely as my selfe: but pray resolue me; Does he liue or not? _Iag._ He liues, In our eternall memorie he liues: but otherwise, It’s the generall feare of Sicily, That he is dead, or in Captiuitie. For when _Don Iohn_, the Spanish Generall, Went with an Armie ’gainst the cruell Turkes, In that still memorable Battell of Lepanto, Our braue _Lorenzo_, too too vent’rous, There lost his life, or worse, his libertie. _Lor._ Hath not Time with his rude hand Defac’d the Impression of his Effigies In your memories yet? _Iag._ No, nor will euer be, so long As worth shall be admir’d, and vertue loued. _Lor._ You know him, if you see him. _Iag._ My Lord _Lorenzo_! _Lor._ Rise, my worthy Friend, I haue made proofe of thy vnfayned loue. _Iag._ Th’exceeding happinesse to see you well, Is more then ioy can vtter: On my knees I beg your pardon for th’vnciuill speech My ignorant tongue committed.