_The_ DUKE, VALERIO, _Attendants. At the other door,_ LAURA,
VIOLETTA, BEATRIX, MARIO. _Instrumental and vocal music; in the time
of which, enter_ AURELIAN _and_ CAMILLO. _After the music, enter_
SOPHRONIA, LUCRETIA, HIPPOLITA, _and other Nuns._
_Duke._ [_To_ VALERIO, _who had whispered to him._] I needed not those
marks to know her. She's one continued excellence; she's all over
miracle.
_Soph._ [_To the_ DUKE.] We know, sir, we are not capable by our
entertainment, of adding any thing to your pleasures; and therefore we
must attribute this favour of your presence, to your piety and
devotion.
_Duke._ You have treated me with harmony so excellent, that I believed
myself among a choir of angels; especially when I beheld so fair a
troop behind you.
_Soph._ Their beauty, sir, is wholly dedicated to heaven, and is no
way ambitious of a commendation, which, from your mouth, might raise a
pride in any other of the sex.
_Cam._ I am impatient, and can bear no longer. Let what will happen--
_Aur._ Do you not see your ruin inevitable? Draw in a holy place! and
in the presence of the Duke!
_Mar._ I do not like Camillo's being here: I must cut short the
ceremony. [_Whispers_ SOPHRONIA.
_Soph._ [_To_ LAURA _and_ VIOLETTA.] Come, fair cousins, we hope to
make the cloisteral life so pleasing, that it may be an inducement to
you to quit the wicked world for ever.
_Vio._ [_Passing by_ CAMILLO.] Take that, and read it at your leisure.
[_Conveys a note into his hand._
_Cam._ A ticket, as I live, Aurelian.
_Aur._ Steal off, and be thankful: if that be my Beatrix with Laura,
she's most confoundedly ugly. If ever we had come to love-work, and a
candle had been brought us, I had fallen back from that face, like a
buck-rabbit in coupling. [_Exeunt_ CAMILLO _and_ AURELIAN.
_Soph._ Daughters, the time of our devotion calls us.--All happiness
to your highness.
_Luc._ [_To_ HIPPOLITA.] Little thinks my venerable old love there,
that his mistress in masquerade is so near him. Now do I even long to
abuse that fop-gravity again.
_Hip._ Methinks, he looks on us.
_Luc._ Farewell, poor love; I am she, I am, for all my demure looks,
that treated thee so inhumanly last night.
[_She is going off, after_ SOPHRONIA.
_Duke._ [_following her._] Stay, lady; I would speak with you.
_Luc._ Ah! [_Shrieking._
_Soph._ How now, daughter? What's the meaning of that indecent noise
you make?
_Luc._ [_Aside._] If I speak to him, he will discover my voice, and
then I am ruined.
_Duke._ If your name be Lucretia, I have some business of concernment
with you.
_Luc._ [_To_ SOPHRONIA.] Dear madam, for heaven's sake make haste into
the cloister; the duke pursues me on some ill design.
_Soph._ [_To the_ DUKE.] 'Tis not permitted, sir, for maids, once
entered into religion, to hold discourses here of worldly things.
_Duke._ But my discourses are not worldly, madam;
I had a vision in the dead of night,
Which shewed me this fair virgin in my sleep,
And told me, that from her I should be taught
Where to bestow large alms, and great endowments,
On some near monastery.
_Soph._ Stay, Lucretia;
The holy vision's will must be obeyed. [_Exeunt_ SOPHRONIA _and Nuns._
_Luc._ [_Aside._] He does not know me, sure; and yet I fear religion
is the least of his business with me.
_Duke._ I see, madam, beauty will be beauty in any habit;
Though, I confess, the splendour of a court
Were a much fitter scene for yours, than is
A cloistered privacy.
_Luc._ [_counterfeiting her voice._]
The world has no temptations for a mind
So fixed and raised above it;
This humble cell contains and bounds my wishes:
My charity gives you my prayers, and that's
All my converse with human kind.
_Duke._ Since when, madam, have the world and you been upon these
equal terms of hostility? Time was, you have been better friends.
_Luc._ No doubt I have been vain, and sinful; but the remembrance of
those days cannot be pleasant to me now, and therefore, if you please,
do not refresh their memory.
_Duke._ Their memory! you speak as if they were ages past.
_Luc._ You think me still what I was once--a vain, fond, giddy
creature: I see, sir, whither your discourses tend, and therefore take
my leave.
_Duke._ Yes, madam, I know you see whither my discourses tend, and
therefore 'twill not be convenient that you should take your leave.
Disguise yourself no farther; you are known, as well as you knew me in
masquerade.
_Luc._ I am not used enough to the world to interpret riddles;
therefore, once more, heaven keep you.
_Duke._ This will not do; your voice, your mien, your stature, betray
you for the same I saw last night: you know the time and place.
_Luc._ You were not in this chapel, and I am bound by vow to stir no
farther.
_Duke._ But you had too much wit to keep that vow.
_Luc._ If you persist, sir, in this raving madness, I can bring
witness of my innocence. [_Is going._
_Duke._ To save that labour, see if you know that hand, and let that
justify you. [_Shows her letter._
_Luc._ What do I see! my ruin is inevitable.
_Duke._ You know you merit it:
You used me ill, and now are in my power.
_Luc._ But you, I hope, are much too noble to
Destroy the fame of a poor silly woman?
_Duke._ Then, in few words,--for I am bred a soldier,
And must speak plain,--it is your love I ask;
If you deny, this letter is produced;
You know the consequence.
_Luc._ I hope I do not;
For though there are appearances against me,
Enough to give you hope I durst not shun you,
Yet, could you see my heart, 'tis a white virgin-tablet,
On which no characters of earthly love
Were ever writ: And, 'twixt the prince and me,
If there were any criminal affection,
May heaven this minute--
_Duke._ Swear not; I believe you:
For, could I think my son had e'er enjoyed you,
I should not be his rival. Since he has not,
I may have so much kindness for myself,
To wish that happiness.
_Luc._ You ask me what I must not grant,
Nor, if I loved you, would: you know my vow of chastity.
_Duke._ Yet again that senseless argument?
The vows of chastity can ne'er be broken,
Where vows of secrecy are kept. Those I'll swear with you.
But 'tis enough at present, you know my resolution.
I would persuade, not force, you to my love;
And to that end I give you this night's respite.
Consider all, that you may fear or hope;
And think that on your grant, or your denial,
Depends a double welfare, yours and mine. [_Exit._
_Luc._ A double ruin, rather, if I grant;
For what can I expect from such a father,
When such a son betrays me! Could I think,
Of all mankind, that Frederick would be base?
And, with the vanity of vulgar souls,
Betray a virgin's fame? One, who esteemed him,
And I much fear did more than barely so--
But I dare note examine myself farther, for fear of confessing to my
own thoughts, a tenderness of which he is unworthy.
_Enter_ HIPPOLITA.
_Hip._ I watched till your old gallant was gone, to bring you news of
your young one. A mischief on these old dry lovers! they are good for
nothing but tedious talking; well, yonder's the prince at the grate; I
hope I need say no more to you.
_Luc._ I'll come when I've recovered myself a little. I am a wretched
creature, Hippolita! the letter I writ to the prince--
_Hip._ I know it,--is fallen into his father's hands by accident. He's
as wretched as you too. Well, well, it shall be my part to bring you
together; and then, if two young people, that have opportunity, can be
wretched and melancholy--I'll go before, and meet Ascanio. [_Exit._
_Luc._ I am half unwilling to go, because I must be accessary to her
assignation with Ascanio; but, for once, I'll meet the prince in the
garden-walk: I am glad, however, that he is less criminal than I
thought him. [_Exeunt._