_Leost._ If those glories You so set forth were mine, they might plead for me; But I can lay no claim to the least honour Which you, with foul injustice, ravish from her. Her beauty in me wrought a miracle, Taught me to aim at things beyond my power, Which her perfections purchased, and gave to me From her free bounties; she inspired me with That valour which I dare not call mine own; And, from the fair reflection of her mind, My soul received the sparkling beams of courage. She, from the magazine of her proper goodness, Stock'd me with virtuous purposes; sent me forth To trade for honour; and, she being the owner Of the bark of my adventures, I must yield her A just account of all, as fits a factor. And, howsoever others think me happy, And cry aloud, I have made a prosperous voyage; One frown of her dislike at my return, Which, as a punishment for my fault, I look for, Strikes dead all comfort. _Timag._ Tush! these fears are needless; She cannot, must not, shall not, be so cruel. A free confession of a fault wins pardon, But, being seconded by desert, commands it. The general is your own, and, sure, my father Repents his harshness; for myself, I am Ever your creature.--One day shall be happy In your triumph, and your marriage. _Leost._ May it prove so, With her consent and pardon. _Timag._ Ever touching On that harsh string! She is your own, and you Without disturbance seize on what's your due. [_Exeunt._ ACT IV. SCENE I. _Syracuse. A Room in_ ARCHIDAMUS'_s House_. _Enter_ MARULLO _and_ TIMANDRA. _Mar._ She has her health, then? _Timand._ Yes, sir; and as often As I speak of you, lends attentive ear To all that I deliver; nor seems tired, Though I dwell long on the relation of Your sufferings for her, heaping praise on praise On the unequall'd temperance, and command You hold o'er your affections. _Mar._ To my wish: Have you acquainted her with the defeature[120] Of the Carthaginians, and with what honours Leosthenes comes crown'd home with? _Timand._ With all care. _Mar._ And how does she receive it? _Timand._ As I guess, With a seeming kind of joy; but yet appears not Transported, or proud of his happy fortune. But when I tell her of the certain ruin You must encounter with at their arrival In Syracusa, and that death, with torments, Must fall upon you, which you yet repent not, Esteeming it a glorious martyrdom, And a reward of pure unspotted love, Preserved in the white robe of innocence, Though she were in your power; and, still spurr'd on By powerful love, you rather chose to suffer The fury of your lord, than that she should Be grieved or tainted in her reputation---- _Mar._ Pities she my misfortune?