Silv. _Hippolyta_ our Sister, drest like a _Venice_ Curtezan, With all the Charms of a loose Wanton, Singing and playing to her ravisht Lover, Who I perceiv’d assisted to expose her. Mar. Well, Sir, what follow’d? Silv. Surpriz’d at sight of this, I did withdraw, And left them laughing at my little Confidence. Mar. How! left them? and left them living too? Silv. If a young Wench will be gadding, Who can help it? Mar. ’Sdeath you should, were you that half her Brother, 236 Which my Father too doatingly believes you. [Inrag’d. Silv. How! do you question his Belief, _Marcel?_ Mar. I ne’er consider’d it; be gone and leave me. Silv. Am I a Dog that thus you bid me vanish? What mean you by this Language? [Comes up to him. And how dare you upbraid me with my Birth, Which know, _Marcel_, is more illustrious far Than thine, being got when Love was in his reign, With all his Youth and Heat about him? I, like the Birds of bravest kind, was hatcht In the hot Sun-shine of Delight; whilst Thou, _Marcel_, wer’t poorly brooded In the cold Nest of Wedlock. Mar. Thy Mother was some base notorious Strumpet, And by her Witchcraft reduc’d my Father’s Soul, And in return she paid him with a Bastard, Which was thou. Silv. _Marcel_, thou ly’st. [Strikes him. Mar. Tho ’twere no point of Valour, but of Rashness To fight thee, yet I’ll do’t. Silv. By Heaven, I will not put this Injury up. [They fight, _Silvio_ is wounded. [Fight again. Enter _Ambrosio_, and _Cleonte_ between; _Silvio_ falls into the Arms of _Cleonte_. Amb. Hold! I command you hold; Ah, Traitor to my Blood, what hast thou done? [To _Marcel_, who kneels and lays his Sword at his Feet. Silv. In fair _Cleonte’s_ Arms! O I could kiss the Hand that gives me Death, So I might thus expire. Mar. Pray hear me, Sir, before you do condemn me. Amb. I will hear nothing but thy Death pronounc’d, Since thou hast wounded him, if it be mortal. Have I not charg’d thee on thy Life, _Marcel_, Thou shouldst not hold Discourse with him of any kind? Mar. I did foresee my Fate, but could not shun it. [Takes his Sword and goes out. 237 Amb. What ho! _Biscay_, a Surgeon; on your Lives a Surgeon; where be the Rascals? [Goes out. Silv. I would not have a Surgeon search my Wound With rude and heavy Hands: Yours, fair _Cleonte_, can apply the Balsam Far more successfully, For they are soft and white as Down of Swans, And every Touch is sovereign. Cleo. But I shall die with looking on your Wounds. Silv. And I shall die unless you cure them, Sister. Cleo. With the expence of mine to save your Life, Is both my Wish and Duty. Silv. I thank you, pretty Innocence. [Leads him in. Scene III. A Grove. Discovers _Euphemia_ veil’d, walking alone.