[Exeunt _Cleonte_ and _Clarinda_. [_Marcel_ passing over the Garden, sees _Silvio_ enter in Passion, followed by _Francisca_. Silv. Do not, _Francisca_—do not blow my Flame, The Cure thou bring’st is much the greater Hell. [Offers to go, but stops. 316 Mar. Hah, _Silvio!_ unseen I’ll hear the Business. [Goes aside. Silv. I would fain shun thee, but this impious Weight Of Love upon my Soul hinders my flight: I’m fixt—like conscious Guilt it keeps me here, And I am now insensible of Fear. Speak on, thou Messenger of sacred Love—speak on. Franc. The fair _Cleonte_, Sir, whose Soul’s inflam’d No less than yours; tho with a virgin Modesty She would conceal it, pitying now your Pain, Has thro my Intercession— Silv. Oh quickly speak! What Happiness design’d me? Franc. To admit you, Sir, this Night into her Chamber. Mar. Death to my Soul! What’s this? [Aside. Silv. Her Chamber? is that all? will that allay this Fever In my Blood?—No, no, _Francisca_, ’Tis grown too high for amorous Parleys only; Her Arms, her charming Bosom, and her Bed, Must now receive me; or I die, _Francisca_. Franc. I mean no other, Sir; why, can you think A Maid in love as much as you can be, Assisted with the silence of the Night, (Which veils her Blushes too) can say—I dare not? Or if she do, she’ll speak it faintly o’er, And even whilst she so denies will yield. Go, go prepare your self for this Encounter, And do not dally as you did to day, And fright your Pleasure with the Name of Sister— Mar. Oh cursed Witch! [Aside. Franc. What say you, Sir? Silv. That Name has check’d my Joy— And makes it strangely silent and imperfect. [Walks away. Franc. Why do you go, before you answer me? [Follows him into the Garden. Mar. I’ll follow him, and kill them. [Comes out with a Dagger. 317 Oh, who would be allied unto a Woman, Nature’s loose Handy-Work? the slight Imploys Of all her wanton Hours?—Oh, I could rave now— Abandon Sense and Nature. Hence, all considerate Thoughts, and in their Room, Supply my Soul with Vengeance, that may prove Too great to be allay’d by Nature, or by Love. [Goes into the Garden after them. Enter again _Silvio_ melancholy, followed by _Francisca_. Franc. But will you lose this Opportunity, Her Lodgings too being so near your own? Silv. Hell take her for her Wickedness. Oh that ten thousand Mountains stood between us, And Seas as vast and raging as her Lust, That we might never meet—Oh perfect Woman! I find there is no Safety in thy Sex; No trusting to thy Innocence: That being counterfeit, thy Beauty’s gone, Dropt like a Rose o’er-blown; And left thee nothing but a wither’d Root, That never more can bloom. Franc. Alas, I fear I have done ill in this. [Aside. Silv. I now should hate her: but there yet remains Something within, so strangely kind to her, That I’m resolv’d to give her one proof more, Of what I have vow’d her often; yes, I’ll kill her— Franc. How, kill her, Sir? Gods, what have I done! [Aside.