_Diocle._ Which requires yet A retribution from me, Artemia, Tied by a father's care, how to bestow A jewel, of all things to me most precious: Nor will I therefore longer keep thee from The chief joys of creation, marriage rites; Which that thou may'st with greater pleasures taste of, Thou shalt not like with mine eyes, but thine own. Among these kings, forgetting they were captives; Or those, remembering not they are my subjects, Make choice of any: By Jove's dreadful thunder, My will shall rank with thine. _Artem._ It is a bounty The daughters of great princes seldom meet with; For they, to make up breaches in the state, Or for some other public ends, are forced To match where they affect not[27]. May my life Deserve this favour! _Diocle._ Speak; I long to know The man thou wilt make happy. _Artem._ If that titles, Or the adored name of Queen could take me, Here would I fix mine eyes, and look no further; But these are baits to take a mean-born lady, Not her that boldly may call Cæsar father: In that I can bring honour unto any, But from no king that lives receive addition: To raise desert and virtue by my fortune, Though in a low estate, were greater glory, Than to mix greatness with a prince that owes[28] No worth but that name only. _Diocle._ I commend thee; 'Tis like myself. _Artem._ If, then, of men beneath me, My choice is to be made, where shall I seek, But among those that best deserve from you? That have served you most faithfully; that in dangers Have stood next to you; that have interposed Their breasts as shields of proof, to dull the swords Aim'd at your bosom; that have spent their blood To crown your brows with laurel? _Macr._ Cytherea, Great Queen of Love, be now propitious to me! _Harp._ [_to Sap._] Now mark what I foretold. _Anton._ Her eye's on me. Fair Venus' son, draw forth a leaden dart[29], And, that she may hate me, transfix her with it; Or, if thou needs wilt use a golden one, Shoot it in the behalf of any other: Thou know'st I am thy votary elsewhere. [_Aside._ _Artem._ [_advances to Anton._] Sir. _Theoph._ How he blushes! _Sap._ Welcome, fool, thy fortune. Stand like a block when such an angel courts thee! _Artem._ I am no object to divert your eye From the beholding. _Anton._ Rather a bright sun, Too glorious for him to gaze upon, That took not first flight from the eagle's aerie. As I look on the temples, or the gods, And with that reverence, lady, I behold you, And shall do ever. _Artem._ And it will become you, While thus we stand at distance; but, if love, Love born out of the assurance of your virtues, Teach me to stoop so low-- _Anton._ O, rather take A higher flight.