_D. of Eboli._ Say I loved, and with a flame Which even melts my tender heart to name; Loved too a man, I will not say ingrate, Because he's far above my birth or fate; Yet so far he at least does cruel prove, He prosecutes a dead and hopeless love, Starves on a barren rock, and won't be blest, Though I invite him kindly to a feast. _Don Car._ What stupid animal could senseless lie, Quickened by beams from that illustrious eye? _D. of Eboli._ Nay, to increase your wonder, you shall know That I, alas! am forced to tell him too, Till even I blush, as now I tell it you. _Don Car._ You neither shall have cause of shame or fear, Whose secrets safe within my bosom are. _D. of Eboli._ Then farther I the riddle may explain: Survey that face, and blame me if you can. [_Shows him his own picture._ _Don Car._ Distraction of my eyes! what have they seen? 'Tis my own picture which I sent the queen, When to her fame I paid devotion first, Expecting bliss, but lost it: I am cursed, Cursed too in thee, who from my saint darest steal The only relic left her of my zeal, And with the sacrilege attempt my heart. Wert thou more charming than thou think'st thou art, Almighty love preserves the fort for her, And bids defiance to thy entrance there. _D. of Eboli._ Neglected! Scorned by father and by son! What a malicious course my stars have run! But since I meet with such unlucky fate In love, I'll try how I can thrive in hate: My own dull husband may assist in that. To his revenge I'll give him fresh alarms, And with the gray old wizard muster charms. I have't; thanks, thanks, revenge! Prince, 'tis thy bane. [_Aside._ Can you forgive me, sir? I hope you can. [_Mildly._ I'll try to recompense the wrongs I've done, And better finish what is ill begun. _Don Car._ Madam, you at so strange a rate proceed, I shall begin to think you loved indeed. _D. of Eboli._ No matter: be but to my honour true, As you shall ever find I'll be to you. The queen's my charge, and you may, on that score, Presume that you shall see her yet once more. I'll lead you to those so-much worshipped charms, And yield you to my happy rival's arms. _Don Car._ In what a mighty sum shall I be bound! I did not think such virtue could be found. Thou mistress of all best perfections, stay: Fain I in gratitude would something say, But am too far in debt for thanks to pay. _Enter_ Don JOHN of Austria. _Don John._ Where is that prince, he whose afflictions speak So loud, as all hearts but his own might break?