_Plac._ If it be love, which does your soul possess---- _Max._ Are you my rival, that so soon you guess? _Plac._ Far, mighty prince, be such a crime from me; [_Kneeling._ Which, with the pride, includes impiety. Could you forgive it, yet the gods above Would never pardon me a Christian love. _Max._ Thou liest:--There's not a God inhabits there, But for this Christian would all heaven forswear. Even Jove would try more shapes her love to win, } And in new birds, and unknown beasts, would sin: } At least, if Jove could love like Maximin. } _Plac._ A captive, sir, who would a martyr die? _Max._ She courts not death, but shuns captivity. Great gifts, and greater promises I'll make: And what religion is't, but they can shake? She shall live high;--Devotion in distress Is born, but vanishes in happiness. [_Exit_ MAX. _Plac._ [_Solus_.] His son forgot, his empress unappeased-- How soon the tyrant with new love is seized! Love various minds does variously inspire: He stirs, in gentle natures, gentle fire, Like that of incense on the altars laid; But raging flames tempestuous souls invade; A fire, which every windy passion blows; With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows. But I accursed, who servilely must move, And sooth his passion, for his daughters love! Small hope, 'tis true, attends my mighty care; But of all passions love does last despair. [_Exit._ ACT III. SCENE I.--_The Royal Pavilion_. _Enter_ MAXIMIN, PLACIDIUS, _Guards, and Attendants_. _Max._ This love, that never could my youth engage, Peeps out his coward head to dare my age. Where hast thou been thus long, thou sleeping form, That wak'st, like drowsy seamen, in a storm? A sullen hour thou chusest for thy birth: My love shoots up in tempests, as the earth Is stirred and loosened in a blust'ring wind, Whose blasts to waiting flowers her womb unbind. _Plac._ Forgive me, if I say your passions are So rough, as if in love you would make war. But love is soft-- And with soft beauty tenderly complies; In lips it laughs, and languishes in eyes. _Max._ There, let it laugh; or, like an infant, weep: I cannot such a supple passion keep. Mine, stiff with age, and stubborn as my arms, Walks upright; stoops not to, but meets her charms. _Plac._ Yet fierceness suits not with her gentle kind; They brave assaults, but may be undermined. _Max._ Till I in those mean arts am better read, Court thou, and fawn, and flatter in my stead. _Enter St_ CATHARINE.