_Cleo._ It needs not, sir; I prize him to his worth, Nay, love him truly; yet would not live slaved To his jealous humours: since, by the hopes of heaven, As I am free from violence, in a thought I am not guilty. _Archid._ 'Tis believed, Cleora; And much the rather, our great gods be praised for 't! In that I find, beyond my hopes, no sign Of riot in my house, but all things order'd, As if I had been present. _Cleo._ May that move you To pity poor Marullo! _Archid._ 'Tis my purpose To do him all the good I can, Cleora; But this offence, being against the state, Must have a public trial. In the mean time, Be careful of yourself, and stand engaged No further to Leosthenes, than you may Come off with honour; for, being once his wife, You are no more your own, nor mine, but must Resolve to serve, and suffer his commands, And not dispute them:--ere it be too late, Consider it duly. I must to the senate. [_Exit._ _Cleo._ I am much distracted: in Leosthenes I can find nothing justly to accuse, But his excess of love, which I have studied To cure with more than common means; yet still It grows upon him. And, if I may call My sufferings merit, I stand bound to think on Marullo's dangers--though I save his life, His love is unrewarded:--I confess, Both have deserved me; yet, of force, must be Unjust to one; such is my destiny.-- _Enter_ TIMANDRA. How now! whence flow these tears? _Timand._ I have met, madam, An object of such cruelty, as would force A savage to compassion. _Cleo._ Speak, what is it? _Timand._ Men pity beasts of rapine, if o'ermatch'd, Though baited for their pleasure: but these monsters Upon a man that can make no resistance, Are senseless in their tyranny. Let it be granted Marullo is a slave, he's still a man; A capital offender, yet in justice Not to be tortured, till the judge pronounce His punishment. _Cleo._ Where is he? _Timand._ Dragg'd to prison With more than barbarous violence; spurn'd and spit on By the insulting officers, his hands Pinion'd behind his back; loaden with fetters: Yet, with a saint-like patience, he still offers His face to their rude buffets. _Cleo._ O my grieved soul!-- By whose command? _Timand._ It seems, my lord your brother's, For he's a looker-on: and it takes from Honour'd Leosthenes to suffer it, For his respect to you, whose name in vain The grieved wretch loudly calls on. _Cleo._ By Diana, 'Tis base in both; and to their teeth I'll tell them That I am wrong'd in 't. [_Going forth._ _Timand._ What will you do? _Cleo._ In person Visit and comfort him. _Timand._ That will bring fuel To the jealous fires which burn too hot already In lord Leosthenes. _Cleo._ Let them consume him! I am mistress of myself. Where cruelty reigns, There dwells nor love nor honour. [_Exit._