Meg. By this good light, he bears it handsomely.

Phi. This lady? I will sooner trust the wind
With feathers, or the troubled sea with pearl,
Than her with any thing. Believe her not!
Why, think you, if I did believe her words,
I would outlive them? Honour cannot take
Revenge on you; then, what were to be known
But death?

King. Forget her, sir, since all is knit
Between us. But I must request of you
One favour, and will sadly be denied.
Phi. Command, whate'er it be.
King. Swear to be true

To what you promise.

Phi. By the powers above!

Let it not be the death of her or him,
And it is granted.

King. Bear away that boy

To torture; I will have her cleared or buried. Phi. Oh, let me call my words back, worthy sir!

Ask something else! Bury my life and right
In one poor grave; but do not take away
My life and fame at once.

King. Away with him! it stands irrevocable.
Phi. Turn all your eyes on me: here stands a

man,

The falsest and the basest of this world.
Set swords against this breast, some honest man,
For I have lived, till I am pitied!

My former deeds were hateful, but this last
Is pitiful; for, I, unwillingly,

Have given the dear preserver of my life
Unto his torture! Is it in the power
Of flesh and blood, to carry this and live!
[Offers to kill himself.
Are. Dear sir, be patient yet! Oh, stay that
hand.

King. Sirs, strip that boy.

Dion. Come, sir; your tender flesh will try

In court, of one Euphrasia, a lady,

And daughter to you; betwixt whom and me, They, that would flatter my bad face, would swear There was such strange resemblance, that we two Could not be known asunder, dressed alike.

Dion. By heaven, and so there is!

Bel. For her fair sake,

Who now doth spend the spring-time of her life
In holy pilgrimage, move to the king,
That I may 'scape this torture.

Dion. But thou speakest

As like Euphrasia, as thou dost look.
How came it to thy knowledge, that she lives
In pilgrimage?

Bel. I know it not, my lord;

But I have heard it; and do scarce believe it. Dion. Oh, my shame! 'Is't possible? Draw

near

That I may gaze upon thee. Art thou she,
Or else her murderer? Where wert thou born?
Bel. In Syracusa.

Dion. What's thy name?

Bel. Euphrasia.

Dion. Oh, 'tis just, 'tis she!

Now I do know thee. Oh, that thou hadst died, And I had never seen thee, nor my shame! How shall I own thee? shall this tongue of mine E'er call thee daughter more?

Bel. 'Would I had died indeed! I wish it too:
And so I must have done by vow, ere published
What I have told, but that there was no means
To hide it longer. Yet I joy in this,
The princess is all clear.

King. What have you done?
Dion. All is discovered.

Phi. Why then hold you me?

[He offers to stab himself.

All is discovered! Pray you, let me go.
King. Stay him.

Are. What is discovered?
Dion. Why, my shame!

It is a woman: let her speak the rest.
Phi. How? that again!

Dion. It is a woman.

Phi. But, Bellario,

(For I must call thee still so) tell me why
Thou didst conceal thy sex? It was a fault;
A fault, Bellario, though thy other deeds
Of truth outweighed it: all these jealousies
Had flown to nothing, if thou hadst discovered
What now we know.

Bel. My father oft would speak
Your worth and virtue; and, as I did
grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so praised; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought, (but it was you) enter our gates.
My blood flew out, and back again as fast,
As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in
Like breath; then was I called away in haste,
To entertain you. Never was a man,
Heaved from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, raised
So high in thoughts as I you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. I did hear you talk,
Far above singing! after you were gone,

I
grew acquainted with my heart, and searched
What stirred it so: alas! I found it love;
Yet far from lust; for could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself
In habit of a boy; and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you; and, understanding well,
That, when I made discovery of my sex,
I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes,
For other than I seemed, that I might ever
Abide with you: then sat I by the fount,
Where first you took me up.

Cannot be jealous, though you had a lady Dressed like a page to serve you; nor will I Suspect her living here. Come, live with me; Live free, as I do. She, that loves my lord, Curst be the wife that hates her!

Phi. I grieve such virtues should be laid in earth Without an heir. Hear me, my royal father: Wrong not the freedom of our souls so much, To think to take revenge of that base woman; Her malice cannot hurt us. Set her free As she was born, saving from shame and sin.

King. Set her at liberty; but leave the court; This is no place for such! You, Pharamond, Shall have free passage, and a conduct home, Worthy so great a prince. When you come there, Remember, 'twas your faults, that lost you her, And not my purposed will.

Pha. I do confess,

Renowned sir.

King. Last, join your hands in one. Enjoy,
Philaster,

This kingdom, which is yours, and after me
Whatever I call mine. My blessing on you!
All happy hours be at your marriage joys,
That you may grow yourselves over all lands,
And live to see your plenteous branches spring
Wherever there is sun! let princes learn
By this, to rule the passions of their blood,
For what heaven wills can never be withstood.
[Exeunt omnes,

K

VOL. I.

And, nursed together, make a conqueror;
Divided, but a talker. "Tis a truth,
That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed;
A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady,
And not our tongues; a truth is none of ours,
Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing;
For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady,
And we, that have been victors, beat ourselves,
When we insult upon our honour's subject.

Bond. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say
What liberty and honour bid us do,
And what the gods allow us?

Car. No, Bonduca:

So what we say exceed not what we do.
You call the Romans fearful, fleeing Romans,
'And Roman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures :'
Does this become a doer? are they such?

Bond. They are no more.

Car. Where is your conquest then? Why are your altars crowned with wreaths of flowers?

The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire?
The holy Druides composing songs
Of everlasting life to victory?

Why are these triumphs, lady? for a May-game?
For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans?
Is it no more? Shut up your temples, Britons,
And let the husbandman redeem his heifers,
Put out our holy fires, no timbrel ring,
Let's home and sleep; for such great overthrows
A candle burns too bright a sacrifice,

A glow-worm's tail too full of flame. Oh, Nen

nius,

Thou hadst a noble uncle, knew a Roman,
And how to speak him, how to give him weight
In both his fortunes.

Bond. By the gods, I think

You doat upon these Romans, Caratach!

Car. Witness these wounds, I do; they were
fairly given:

I love an enemy; I was born a soldier ;
And he that in the head on's troop defies me,
Bending my manly body with his sword,
I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed Hymen
Ne'er tied a longing virgin with more joy,
Than I am married to that man, that wounds me:
And are not all these Roman? Ten struck battles
I sucked these honoured scars from, and all Ro-

man;

Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches,
(When many a frozen storm sung through my
cuirass,

And made it doubtful, whether that or I
Were the more stubborn metal) have I wrought

through,

And all to try these Romans. Ten times a-night
I have swam the rivers, when the stars of Rome
Shot at me as I floated, and the billows
Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoulders,
Charging my battered sides with troops of agues;
And still to try these Romans, whom I found
(And, if I lie, my wounds be henceforth back-
ward,

And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers)

As ready, and as full of that I brought,
(Which was not fear, nor flight) as valiant,
As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer,
Ever advanced as forward as the Britons,
Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours,
Ay, and as subtle, lady. 'Tis dishonour,
And, followed, will be impudence, Bonduca,
And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans.
Have not I seen the Britons-

Bond. What?

Car. Disheartened,

Run, run, Bonduca! not the quick rack swifter;
The virgin from the hated ravisher
Not half so fearful; not a flight drawn home,
A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,
E'er made that haste, that they have. By the gods,
I've seen these Britons, that you magnify,
Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,
Basely for mercy roaring; the light shadows
That in a thought scur o'er the fields of corn,
Halted on crutches to them.

Bond. Oh, ye powers,
What scandals do I suffer!

Car. Yes, Bonduca,

I've seen thee run too; and thee, Nennius;
Yea, run apace, both; then, when Penius
(The Roman girl!) cut through your armed carts,
And drove them headlong on ye, down the hill;
Then, when he hunted ye like Britain foxes,
More by the scent than sight; then did I see
These valiant and approved men of Britain,
Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy,
And hoot their fears to one another nightly.
Nen. And what did you then, Caratach?
Car. I fled too,

But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then,
Young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius:
For, when your fears out-run him, then stept I,
And in the head of all the Roman fury
Took him, and, with my tough belt, to my back
I buckled him; behind him, my sure shield;
And then I followed. If I say I fought
Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,
I lie not, Nennius. Neither had you heard
Me speak this, or ever seen the child more,
But that the son of virtue, Penius,
Seeing me steer through all these storms of danger,
My helm still in my hand (my sword,) my prow
Turned to my foe (my face,) he cried out nobly,
'Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely;
Thy manly sword has ransomed thee; grow strong,
And let me meet thee once again in arms;
Then, if thou stand'st, thou art mine.' I took his
offer,

And here I am to honour him.

Bond. Oh, cousin,

From what a flight of honour hast thou checked me!

What wouldst thou make me, Caratach?
Car. See, lady,

The noble use of others in our losses.
Does this afflict you? Had the Romans cried this,
And, as we have done theirs, sung out these
fortunes,