_Don John._ Alas! lay this religion now aside; I'll show thee one more pleasant, that which Jove Set forth to the old world, when from above He came himself, and taught his mortals love. _D. of Eboli._ Will nothing then quench your unruly flame? My lord, you might consider who I am. _Don John._ I know you're her I love, what should I more Regard? _D. of Eboli._ [_Aside._] By Heaven, he's brave!-- But can so poor A thought possess your breast, to think that I Will brand my name with lust and infamy? _Don John._ Those who are noblest born should higher prize Love's sweets. Oh! let me fly into those eyes! There's something in them leads my soul astray: As he who in a necromancer's glass Beholds his wished-for fortune by him pass, Yet still with greedy eyes Pursues the vision as it glides away. _D. of Eboli._ Protect me, Heaven! I dare no longer stay; Your looks speak danger; I feel something too That bids me fly, yet will not let me go. [_Half aside._ _Don John._ Take vows and prayers if ever I prove false. See at your feet the humble Austria falls. [_Kneels._ _D. of Eboli._ Rise, rise. [Don JOHN _rises_.] My lord, why would you thus deceive? [_Sighs._ _Don John._ How many ways to wound me you contrive! Speak, wouldst thou have an empire at thy feet? Say, wouldst thou rule the world? I'll conquer it. _D. of Eboli._ No; above empire far I could prize you, If you would be but-- _Don John._ What? _D. of Eboli._ For ever true. _Don John._ That thou mayst ne'er have cause to fear those harms, I'll be confined for ever in thy arms: Nay, I'll not one short minute from thee stray; Myself I'll on thy tender bosom lay, Till in its warmths I'm melted all away. _Enter_ GARCIA. _Gar._ Madam, your lord-- _D. of Eboli._ Oh! fly, or I'm undone. [_Exit_ GARCIA. _Don John._ Must I without thy blessing then be gone? [_Kisses her hand._ _D. of Eboli._ Think you that this discretion merits one? [_Pulls it back._ _Don John._ I'm awed: As a sick wretch, that on his death-bed lies, Loth with his friends to part, just as he dies, Thus sends his soul in wishes from his eyes. [_Exit._ _D. of Eboli._ O Heaven! what charms in youth and vigour are! Yet he in conquest is not gone too far; Too easily I'll not myself resign: Ere I am his, I'll make him surely mine; Draw him by subtle baits into the trap, Till he's too far got in to make escape; About him swiftly the soft snare I'll cast, And when I have him there, I'll hold him fast. _Enter_ RUY-GOMEZ.