g so tender for the queen I find,
That even Candiope can scarce remove,
And, were she lower, I should call it love.

_Ast_. She charged me, not this secret to betray;
But I best serve her, if I disobey.
For, if he loves, 'twas for her interest done;
If not, he'll keep it secret for his own. [_Aside._

_Phil_. Why are you in obliging me so slow?

_Ast_. The thing's of great importance, you would know;
And you must first swear secresy to all.

_Phil_. I swear.

_Ast_. Yet hold; your oath's too general:
Swear that Candiope shall never know.

_Phil_. I swear.

_Ast_. No; not the queen herself.

_Phil_. I vow.

_Ast_. You wonder why I am so cautious grown,
In telling what concerns yourself alone:
But spare my vow, and guess what it may be,
That makes the queen deny Candiope:
'Tis neither heat, nor pride, that moves her mind;
Methinks the riddle is not hard to find.

_Phil_. You seem so great a wonder to intend,
As were, in me, a crime to apprehend.

_Ast_. 'Tis not a crime to know; but would be one,
To prove ungrateful when your duty's known.

_Phil_. Why would you thus my easy faith abuse:
I cannot think the queen so ill would chuse.
But stay, now your imposture will appear;
She has herself confessed she loved elsewhere:
On some ignoble choice has placed her heart,
One, who wants quality, and more, desert.

_Ast_. This, though unjust, you have most right to say;
For, if you'll rail against yourself, you may.

_Phil_. Dull that I was!
A thousand things now crowd my memory.
That make me know it could be none but I.
Her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame,
Like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came.
But in her kindness my own shame I see;
Have I dethroned her, then for loving me?
I hate myself for that which I have done,
Much more, discovered, than I did unknown.
How does she brook her strange imprisonment?

_Ast_. As great souls should, that make their own content.
The hardest term, she for your act could find,
Was only this, O Philocles, unkind!
Then, setting free a sigh, from her fair eyes
She wiped two pearls, the remnant of wild showers,
Which hung like drops upon the bells of flowers:
And thanked the heavens,
Which better did, what she designed, pursue,
Without her crime, to give her power to you.

_Phil_. Hold, hold! you set my thoughts so near a crown,
They mount above my reach, to pull them down:
Here constancy, ambition there does move;
On each side beauty, and on bo