_King._ No longer? Why, a soul in less time flies To Heaven; and they have changed theirs at their eyes. Hence, abject fears, begone! she's all divine! Speak, friends, can angels in perfection sin? _Ruy-Gom._ Angels, that shine above, do oft bestow Their influence on poor mortals here below. _King._ But Carlos is my son, and always near; Seems to move with me in my glorious sphere. True, she may shower promiscuous blessings down On slaves that gaze for what falls from a crown; But when too kindly she his brightness sees, It robs my lustre to add more to his. But oh! I dare not think That those eyes should at least so humble be To stoop to him, when they had vanquished me. _M. of Posa._ Sir, I am proud to think I know the prince, That he of virtue has too great a sense To cherish but a thought beyond the bound Of strictest duty. He to me has owned How much was to his former passion due, Yet still confessed he above all prized you. _Ruy-Gom._ You better reconcile, sir, than advise: Be not more charitable than you're wise. The king is sick, and we should give him ease, But first find out the depth of his disease. Too sudden cures have oft pernicious grown; We must not heal up festered wounds too soon. _King._ By this then you a power would o'er me gain, Wounding to let me linger in the pain. I'm stung, and won't the torture long endure: Serpents that wound have blood those wounds to cure. _Ruy-Gom._ Good Heaven forbid that I should ever dare To question virtue in a queen so fair, Though she her eyes cast on your glorious son! Men oft see treasures, and yet covet none. _King._ Think not to blind me with dark ironies, The truth disguised in obscure contraries. No, I will trace his windings; all her dark And subtlest paths, each little action mark, If she prove false, as yet I fear, she dies. _Enter_ QUEEN _attended, and_ HENRIETTA. Ha! here! Oh, let me turn away my eyes, For all around she'll her bright beams display: Should I to gaze on the wild meteor stay, Spite of myself I shall be led astray. [_Exeunt_ KING _and_ Marquis of POSA. _Queen._ How scornfully he is withdrawn! Sure ere his love he'd let me know his power, As Heaven oft thunders ere it sends a shower. This Spanish gravity is very odd: All things are by severity so awed, That little Love dares hardly peep abroad. _Hen._ Alas! what can you from old age expect, When frail uneasy men themselves neglect? Some little warmth perhaps may be behind, Though such as in extinguished fires you'll find; Where some remains of heat the ashes hold, Which, if for more you open, straight are cold.