MARGARET That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-- John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement. JOHN Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret? MARGARET (_rising_) Go whither, John? JOHN Go in with me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds? MARGARET That I will, John.-- (_Exeunt_.) SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_. (_John is discovered kneeling.--Margaret standing over him_.) JOHN (_rises_) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am. MARGARET John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you. JOHN They are gone.-- Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is. MARGARET Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John. JOHN Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth. (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know. MARGARET Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity, This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite." JOHN How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself! MARGARET To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen. Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth. JOHN Now Margaret weeps herself. (_A noise of bells heard_.) MARGARET Hark the bells, John.