_Ast_. No; but on her behalf:--Her heart's too great, In this low ebb of fortune, to entreat. _Phil_. Tis but a short eclipse, Which past, a glorious day will soon ensue.-- But I would ask a favour too from you. _Ast_. When conquerors petition, they command: Those, that can captive queens, who can withstand? _Phil_. She, with her happiness, might mine create; Yet seems indulgent to her own ill fate: But she in secret hates me, sure; for why, If not, should she Candiope deny? _Ast_. If you dare trust my knowledge of her mind, She has no thoughts of you that are unkind. _Phil_. I could my sorrows with some patience bear, Did they proceed from any one but her: But from the queen! whose person I adore, By duty much, by inclination more. _Ast_. He is inclined already; did he know, That she loved him, how would his passion grow! [_Aside_. _Phil_. That her fair hand with destiny combines! Fate ne'er strikes deep, but when unkindness joins: For, to confess the secret of my mind, Something so tender for the queen I find, That even Candiope can scarce remove, And, were she lower, I should call it love. _Ast_. She charged me, not this secret to betray; But I best serve her, if I disobey. For, if he loves, 'twas for her interest done; If not, he'll keep it secret for his own. [_Aside._ _Phil_. Why are you in obliging me so slow? _Ast_. The thing's of great importance, you would know; And you must first swear secresy to all. _Phil_. I swear. _Ast_. Yet hold; your oath's too general: Swear that Candiope shall never know. _Phil_. I swear. _Ast_. No; not the queen herself. _Phil_. I vow. _Ast_. You wonder why I am so cautious grown, In telling what concerns yourself alone: But spare my vow, and guess what it may be, That makes the queen deny Candiope: 'Tis neither heat, nor pride, that moves her mind; Methinks the riddle is not hard to find. _Phil_. You seem so great a wonder to intend, As were, in me, a crime to apprehend. _Ast_. 'Tis not a crime to know; but would be one, To prove ungrateful when your duty's known. _Phil_. Why would you thus my easy faith abuse: I cannot think the queen so ill would chuse. But stay, now your imposture will appear; She has herself confessed she loved elsewhere: On some ignoble choice has placed her heart, One, who wants quality, and more, desert. _Ast_. This, though unjust, you have most right to say; For, if you'll rail against yourself, you may. _Phil_. Dull that I was! A thousand things now crowd my memory. That make me know it could be none but I. Her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame, Like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came. But in her kindness my own shame I see; Have I dethroned her, then for loving me? I hate myself for that which I have done, Much more, discovered, than I did unknown. How does she brook her strange imprisonment?