_Cal._ Why, how to behave myself in court, and tightly. I have been told the very place transforms men, And that not one of a thousand, that before Lived honestly in the country on plain salads, But bring him thither, mark me that, and feed him But a month or two with custards and court cake-bread, And he turns knave immediately.--I'd be honest; But I must follow the fashion, or die a beggar. _Giov._ And, if I ever reach my hopes, believe it, We will share fortunes. _Char._ This acknowledgment _Enter_ LIDIA. Binds me your debtor ever.--Here comes one In whose sad looks you easily may read What her heart suffers, in that she is forced To take her last leave of you. _Cont._ As I live, A beauty without parallel! _Lid._ Must you go, then, So suddenly? _Giov._ There's no evasion, Lidia, To gain the least delay, though I would buy it At any rate. Greatness, with private men Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse; And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude The only freemen, are the only slaves. Happy the golden mean! Had I been born In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up With expectation to command a court, I might, like such of your condition, sweetest, Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not, As I am now, against my choice, compell'd Or to lie groveling on the earth, or raised So high upon the pinnacles of state, That I must either keep my height with danger, Or fall with certain ruin. _Lid._ Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard. _Giov._ O, Lidia!---- _Cont._ So passionate[62]! [_Aside._ _Giov._ For, had I been your equal, I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes, And not, as now, with others'; I might still, And without observation or envy, As I have done, continued my delights With you, that are alone, in my esteem, The abstract of society: we might walk In solitary groves, or in choice gardens; From the variety of curious flowers Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders: And then, for change, near to the murmur of Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue, In my imagination conceive With what melodious harmony a quire Of angels sing above their Maker's praises: And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd, Imp[63] feathers to the broken wings of time:-- And all this I must part from. _Cont._ You forget The haste imposed upon us. _Giov._ One word more, And then I come. And after this, when, with Continued innocence of love and service, I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys, Embracing you, but with a lawful flame, I might have been your husband.