_Anton._ But can there be In such a noble casket, wherein lie Beauty and chastity in their full perfections, A rocky heart, killing with cruelty A life that's prostrated beneath your feet? _Dor._ I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew, Thus to hold parley with you;--pray, sir, pardon. [_Going._ _Anton._ Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go: Be but so merciful, before your wounding me With such a mortal weapon as Farewell, To let me murmur to your virgin ear, What I was loth to lay on any tongue But this mine own. _Dor._ If one immodest accent Fly out, I hate you everlastingly. _Anton._ My true love dares not do it. _Mac._ Hermes inspire thee! _Enter, in the gallery above_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, _and_ THEOPHILUS. _Anton._ Come, let me tune you:--glaze not thus your eyes With self-love of a vow'd virginity; All men desire your sweet society, But if you bar me from it, you do kill me, And of my blood are guilty. _Artem._ O base villain! _Sap._ Bridle your rage, sweet princess. _Anton._ Could not my fortunes, Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, Methinks my dear affection makes you mine. _Dor._ Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of gold, He that I love is richer; and for worth, You are to him lower than any slave Is to a monarch. _Sap._ So insolent, base Christian! _Dor._ Can I, with wearing out my knees before him, Get you but be his servant, you shall boast You're equal to a king. _Sap._ Confusion on thee, For playing thus the lying sorceress! _Anton._ Your mocks are great ones; none beneath the sun Will I be servant to.--On my knees I beg it, Pity me, wondrous maid. _Sap._ I curse thy baseness. _Theoph._ Listen to more. _Dor._ O kneel not, sir, to me. _Anton._ This knee is emblem of an humbled heart: That heart which tortured is with your disdain, Justly for scorning others, even this heart, To which for pity such a princess sues, As in her hand offers me all the world, Great Cæsar's daughter. _Artem._ Slave, thou liest. _Anton._ Yet this Is adamant to her, that melts to you In drops of blood. _Theoph._ A very dog! _Anton._ Perhaps 'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow; Yet be you mine, and ever be your own: I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power, On which you Christians lean. _Sap._ I can no longer Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. Sirrah! [_Aloud._ Would, ere thy birth, the mighty Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb! _Mac._ We are betray'd. _Artem._ Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to, Trampling upon my beauty? _Theoph._ Sirrah, bandog[42]! Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her?