Sir Francis Acton. Stern heart, relent; Thy former cruelty at length repent. Was ever known, in any former age, Such honourable wrested courtesy? Lands, honours, life, and all the world forego, Rather than stand engaged to such a foe. [_Aside_. Sir Charles Mountford. Acton, she is too poor to be thy bride, And I too much opposed to be thy brother. There, take her to thee: if thou hast the heart To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey; To blur our house, that never yet was stained; To murder her that never meant thee harm; To kill me now, whom once thou savedst from death, Do them at once: on her all these rely, And perish with her spotted chastity. Sir Francis Acton. You overcome me in your love, Sir Charles; I cannot be so cruel to a lady I love so dearly. Since you have not spared To engage your reputation to the world, Your sister’s honour, which you prize so dear, Nay, all the comforts which you hold on earth, To grow out of my debt, being your foe, Your honoured thoughts, lo! thus I recompense: Your metamorphosed foe receives your gift In satisfaction of all former wrongs. This jewel I will wear here in my heart; And, where before I thought her for her wants Too base to be my bride, to end all strife, I seal you my dear brother, her my wife. Susan. You still exceed us: I will yield to fate, And learn to love, where I till now did hate. Sir Charles Mountford. With that enchantment you have charmed my soul, And made me rich even in those very words: I pay no debt, but am indebted more; Rich in your love, I never can be poor. Sir Francis Acton. All’s mine is yours; we are alike in state, Let’s knit in love what was opposed in hate. Come! for our nuptials we will straight provide, Blest only in our brother and fair bride. [_Exeunt_. SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Frankford’s _House_. _Enter_ Cranwell, Frankford, _and_ Nicholas. Cranwell. Why do you search each room about your house, Now that you have despatched your wife away? Frankford. O sir, to see that nothing may be left That ever was my wife’s. I loved her dearly, And when I do but think of her unkindness, My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment, I would not have a bodkin or a cuff, A bracelet, necklace, or rebato[1.44] wire; Nor any thing that ever was called hers, Left me, by which I might remember her. Seek round about. Nicholas. ’Sblood, master! here’s her lute flung in a corner.