_Phil_. I'm most unhappy in your high displeasure; But, since I must not speak, madam, be pleased To peruse this, and therein read my care. [_He plucks out a paper, and presents it to her; but drops, unknown to him, a picture. Exit_ PHI. _Queen_. [_reads_.] A catalogue of such persons,-- What's this he has let fall, Asteria? [_Spies the box_. _Ast_. Your majesty?-- _Queen_. Take that up; it fell from Philocles. [_She takes it up, looks on it, and smiles_. _Queen_. How now, what makes you merry? _Ast_. A small discovery I have made, madam. _Queen_. Of what? _Ast_. Since first your majesty graced Philocles, I have not heard him named for any mistress, But now this picture has convinced me. _Queen_. Ha! let me see it.-- [_Snatches it from her_. Candiope, prince Lysimantes' sister! _Ast_. Your favour, madam, may encourage him,-- And yet he loves in a high place for him: A princess of the blood; and, what is more, Beyond comparison the fairest lady Our isle can boast. _Queen_. How!--she the fairest Beyond comparison!--'Tis false! you flatter her; She is not fair. _Ast_. I humbly beg forgiveness on my knees, If I offended you:--But next yours, madam, Which all must yield to. _Queen_. I pretend to none. _Ast_. She passes for a beauty. _Queen_. Ay, she may pass:--But why do I speak of her?-- Dear Asteria, lead me, I am not well o' the sudden. [_She faints_. _Ast_. Who's near there?--help the queen! [_The guards are coming_. _Queen_. Bid them away: 'Twas but a qualm, And 'tis already going. _Ast_. Dear madam, what's the matter? You are of late so altered, I scarce know you. You were gay humoured, and you now are pensive; Once calm, and now unquiet:-- Pardon my boldness, that I press thus far Into your secret thoughts: I have, at least, A subject's share in you. _Queen_. Thou hast a greater. That of a friend:--But I am froward, say'st thou? _Ast_. It ill becomes me, madam, to say that. _Queen_. I know I am:--Pr'ythee, forgive me for it,-- I cannot help it;--but thou hast Not long to suffer it. _Ast_. Alas! _Queen_. I feel my strength each day and hour consume, Like lilies wasting in a lymbeck's heat. Yet a few days, And thou shalt see me lie, all damp and cold, Shrouded within some hollow vault, among My silent ancestors. _Ast_. O dearest madam! Speak not of death; or think not, if you die, That I will stay behind. _Queen_. Thy love has moved me;--I, for once, will have The pleasure to be pitied. I'll unfold A thing so strange, so horrid of myself-- _Ast_. Bless me, sweet heaven!-- So horrid, said you, madam? _Queen_. That sun, who with one look surveys the globe, Sees not a wretch like me!--And could the world Take a right measure of my state within, Mankind must either pity me, or scorn me. _Ast_. Sure none could do the last. _Queen_. Thou longest to know it, And I to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth. First, promise me thou wilt excuse my folly; And, next, be secret. _Ast_. Can you doubt it, madam?