_Cleo._ May it not burn here[108], And, as a seamark, serve to guide true lovers Safe from the rocks of passion to the harbour Of pure affection? rising up an example Which aftertimes shall witness, to our glory, First took from us beginning. _Leost._ 'Tis a happiness My duty to my country, and mine honour Cannot consent to; besides, add to these, It was your pleasure, fortified by persuasion, And strength of reason, for the general good, That I should go. _Cleo._ Alas! I then was witty To plead against myself; and mine eye, fix'd Upon the hill of honour, ne'er descended To look into the vale of certain dangers, Through which you were to cut your passage to it. _Leost._ I'll stay at home, then. _Cleo._ No, that must not be; For so, to serve my own ends, and to gain A petty wreath myself, I rob you of A certain triumph, which must fall upon you, Or Virtue's turn'd a handmaid to blind Fortune. How is my soul divided! to confirm you In the opinion of the world, most worthy To be beloved, (with me you're at the height, And can advance no further,) I must send you To court the goddess of stern war, who, if She see you with my eyes, will ne'er return you, But grow enamour'd of you. _Leost._ Sweet, take comfort! And what I offer you, you must vouchsafe me, Or I am wretched. All the dangers that I can encounter in the war are trifles; My enemies abroad to be contemn'd: The dreadful foes, that have the power to hurt me, I leave at home with you. _Cleo._ With me! _Leost._ Nay, in you, In every part about you, they are arm'd To fight against me. _Cleo._ Where? _Leost._ There's no perfection That you are mistress of, but musters up A legion against me, and all sworn To my destruction. _Cleo._ This is strange! _Leost._ But true, sweet; Excess of love can work such miracles! Upon this ivory forehead are intrench'd Ten thousand rivals, and these suns command Supplies from all the world, on pain to forfeit Their comfortable beams; these ruby lips, A rich exchequer to assure their pay: This hand, Sibylla's golden bough to guard them Through hell, and horror, to the Elysian springs; Which who'll not venture for? and, should I name Such as the virtues of your mind invite, Their numbers would be infinite. _Cleo._ Can you think I may be tempted?