_Leost._ Not yours, lady? _Cleo._ Yes; Loved me, Leosthenes; nay, more, so doted, (If e'er affections scorning gross desires May without wrong be styled so,) that he durst not, With an immodest syllable or look, In fear it might take from me, whom he made The object of his better part, discover I was the saint he sued to. _Leost._ A rare temper! _Cleo._ I cannot speak it to the worth: all praise I can bestow upon it will appear Envious detraction. Not to rack you further, Yet make the miracle full, though, of all men, He hated you, Leosthenes, as his rival, So high yet he prized my content, that, knowing You were a man I favour'd, he disdain'd not, Against himself, to serve you. _Leost._ You conceal still The owner of these excellencies. _Cleo._ 'Tis Marullo, My father's bondman. _Leost._ Ha, ha, ha! _Cleo._ Why do you laugh? _Leost._ To hear the labouring mountain of your praise Deliver'd of a mouse. _Cleo._ The man deserves not This scorn, I can assure you. _Leost._ Do you call What was his duty, merit? _Cleo._ Yes, and place it As high in my esteem, as all the honours Descended from your ancestors, or the glory, Which you may call your own, got in this action, In which, I must confess, you have done nobly; And I could add, as I desired, but that I fear 't would make you proud. _Leost._ Why, lady, can you Be won to give allowance, that your slave Should dare to love you? _Cleo._ The immortal gods Accept the meanest altars, that are raised By pure devotions; and sometimes prefer An ounce of frankincense, honey, or milk, Before whole hecatombs, or Sabæan gums, Offer'd in ostentation.--Are you sick Of your old disease? I'll fit you. [_Aside._ _Leost._ You seem moved. _Cleo._ Zealous, I grant, in the defence of virtue. Why, good Leosthenes, though I endured A penance for your sake, above example; I have not so far sold myself, I take it, To be at your devotion, but I may Cherish desert in others, where I find it. How would you tyrannize, if you stood possess'd of That which is only yours in expectation, That now prescribe such hard conditions to me? _Leost._ One kiss, and I am silenced. _Cleo._ I vouchsafe it; Yet, I must tell you 'tis a favour that Marullo, when I was his, not mine own, Durst not presume to ask: no; when the city Bow'd humbly to licentious violence, And when I was, of men and gods forsaken, Deliver'd to his power, he did not press me To grace him with one look or syllable, Or urged the dispensation of an oath Made for your satisfaction:--the poor wretch, Having related only his own sufferings, And kiss'd my hand, which I could not deny him, Defending me from others, never since Solicited my favours. _Leost._ Pray you, end: The story does not please me.