_Jul_. I sent for him; yet if he comes, there's danger; Yet if he does not, I for ever lose him. What can I wish? and yet I wish him here, Only to take the care of me from me. Weary with sitting out a losing hand, Twill be some ease to see another play it. Yesterday I refused to marry him, To-day I run into his arms unasked; Like a mild prince encroached upon by rebels, Love yielded much, till honour asked for all. How now, where's Roderick? [_Sees AMIDEO_. I mean Gonsalvo. [_Sees HIPPOLITO_. _Hip_. You would do well to meet him-- _Amid_. Meet him! you shall not do't: I'll throw myself, Like a young fawning spaniel, in your way So often, you shall never move a step, But you shall tread on me. _Jul_. You need not beg me: I would as soon meet a syren, as see him. _Hip_. His sweetness for those frowns no subject finds: Seas are the field of combat for the winds: But when they sweep along some flowery coast, Their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost. _Jul_. 'Tis that which makes me more unfortunate; Because his sweetness must upbraid my hate. The wounds of fortune touch me not so near; I can my fate, but not his virtue, bear. For my disdain with my esteem is raised; He most is hated when he most is praised: Such an esteem, as like a storm appears, Which rises but to shipwreck what it bears. _Hip_. Infection dwells upon my kindness, sure, Since it destroys even those whom it would cure. [_Cries, and exit_. _Amid_. Still weep, Hippolito; to me thy tears Are sovereign, as those drops the balm-tree sweats.-- But, madam, are you sure you shall not love him? I still fear.-- _Jul_. Thy fear will never let thee be a man. _Amid_. Indeed I think it won't. _Jul_. We are now Alone; what news from Roderick? _Amid_. Madam, he begs you not to fear; he has A way, which, when you think all desperate, Will set you free. _Jul_. If not, I will not live A moment after it. _Amid_. Why? there's some comfort. _Jul_. I strongly wish, for what I faintly hope: Like the day-dreams of melancholy men, I think and think on things impossible, Yet love to wander in that golden maze. _Enter DON MANUEL, HIPPOLITO, and company_. _Amid_. Madam, your brother's here. _Man_. Where is the bridegroom? _Hip_. Not yet returned, sir, from his ship. _Man_. Sister, all this good company is met, To give you joy. _Jul_. While I am compassed round With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief, Whence, like the bird of night, with half shut eyes, She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day. [_Aside_. _Enter Servant_. _Serv_. Sir, some gentlemen and ladies are without, Who, to do honour to this wedding, come To present a masque. _Man_. Tis well; desire them They would leave put the words, and fall to dancing. The poetry of the foot takes most of late. _Serv_. The poet, sir, will take that very ill; He's at the door, with the argument o'the masque In verse. _Man_. Which of the wits is it that made it? _Serv_. None of the wits, sir; 'tis one of the poets.