_Qu_. I am of thy Opinion.-- But now, _Elvira_, for a well-laid Plot, To ruin this _Florella_;--though she be innocent, Yet she must die; so hard a Destiny My Passion for her Husband does decree: But ‘tis the way I stop at.-- His Jealousy already I have rais’d; That’s not enough, his Honour must be touch’d. This Meeting twixt the King and fair _Florella_, Must then be render’d publick; ’.is the Disgrace, not Action, must incense him-- Go you to Don _Alonzo’s_ Lodging strait, Whilst I prepare my Story for his Ear.-- [Exit Elvira. Assist me all that’s ill in Woman-kind, And furnish me with Sighs, and feigned Tears, That may express a Grief for this Discovery.-- My Son, be like thy Mother, hot and bold; And like the noble Ravisher of Rome, Court her with Daggers, when thy Tongue grows faint, Till thou hast made a Conquest o’er her Virtue. _Enter_ Alonzo, Elvira. --Oh, _Alonzo_, I have strange News to tell thee! _Alon_. It must be strange indeed, that makes my Queen Dress her fair Eyes in Sorrow. _Qu_. It is a Dress that thou wilt be in love with, When thou shalt hear my Story.-- You had a Sister once. _Alon_. Had! _Qu_. Yes, had,--whilst she was like thy self, all Virtue; Till her bewitching Eyes kindled such Flames, As will undo us all. _Alon_. My Sister, Madam! sure it cannot be:-- What Eyes? what Flames?--inform me strait. _Qu. Alonzo_, thou art honest, just and brave: And should I tell thee more,-- (Knowing thy Loyalty’s above all Nature) It would oblige thee to commit an Outrage, Which baser Spirits will call Cruelty. _Alon_. Gods, Madam! do not praise my Virtue thus, Which is so poor, it scarce affords me patience To attend the end of what you wou’d deliver-- Come, Madam, say my Sister--is a Whore. I know ‘tis so you mean; and being so, Where shall I kneel for Justice? Since he that shou’d afford it me, Has made her Criminal.-- Pardon me, Madam, ‘tis the King I mean. _Qu_. I grieve to own, all thy prophetick Fears Are true, _Alonzo_, ‘tis indeed the King. _Alon_. Then I’m disarm’d, For Heaven can only punish him. _Qu_. But, _Alonzo_, Whilst that religious Patience dwells about thee, All Spain must suffer, nay, Ages that shall ensue Shall curse thy Name, and Family; From whom a Race of Bastards shall proceed, To wear that Crown. _Alon_. No, Madam, not for mine, My Sister’s in my power, her Honour’s mine; I can command her Life, though not my King’s. Her Mother is a Saint, and shou’d she now Look down from Heaven upon a Deed so foul, I think even there she wou’d invent a Curse, To thunder on her Head.-- But, Madam, whence was this Intelligence? _Qu. Elvira_ saw the King enter her Lodgings, With Lover’s haste, and Joy. _Alon_. Her Lodgings!--when? _Qu_. Now, not an Hour ago, Now, since the Moor departed.