ce
For all the treasure of the Westerne Island.

_Rod_. I see no such admired perfection.
Waken her, Burbon, and this loving charme,
Which now hath led your sences prisoner,
Will vanish, and her speach, full of reproofe,
Beget a new phantasma all of hate.
Thou wilt detest her when she shall deny thee.

_Bur_. Waken her Roderick, for I want the power.

_Rod_. I hope I am disguisde sufficiently
That Bellamira cannot know my face.--
Madam, fayre Bellamira!

_Bel_. Here I am:
Who calls on Bellamira?

_Bur_. I, fayre love;
The Duke of Burbon that doth honor thee.

_Bel_. The Duke of Burbon in my Tent so late!
Where is my Gard? what, Peter, Thomasin!

_Rod_. Step to her and restrayne her lest she call:
Ile be a looker on and be unknowne.

_Bur_. What needs your Highnesse call for any Gard
Since you are garded with a faythfull frend?
Behold me, Madam, humbly on my knee
Come to renew my suite: vouchsafe me love
Or with this weapon take away my life.
Much better 'twere a thousand times to dye
Then live in torment of your scorching eye.
You have inflam'd my hearte; oh quench that flame
Or into cinders turne my haplesse truncke,
Haplesse in being unbelov'd by you.

_Bel_. My Lord of Burbon, you presume too much
On th' extremity of passion.
Have I not answerd many an idle letter
With full assurance that I cannot love?
Have I not often _viva voce_ checkt
Your courtly kindnes, frownd upon your smiles,
Usde you unkindly, all to weane your love?
And doe you still persever in your suite?
I tell thee, Burbon, this bold part of thine,
To breake into my Tent at dead of night,
Deserves severe correction, and the more
Because it brings mine honour into question.
I charge thee, as thou art a Gentleman,
Betake thee to thine own Pavilion,
And let this answere satisfie for all:
Burbon, I cannot nor I will not love thee.

_Bur_. Cannot nor will not? Zounds, Madam, but you must.

_Bel_. Must I?

_Bur_. And shall.

_Bel_ You will not force me to it?

_Bur_. Or force that sparkling beauty from your face.
Looke not so fiercely nor cry out for helpe,
For if you doe this makes you cry your last.
Seing neyther words, kind letters, hearty sighes.
Humble intreaty nor a world of payne
Can move you to take pitty of my love,
But Tyrant-like your beauty seeks my life;
I will blot out that beauty with this juice.
Thus, thus I wipe away my passions,
Thus doe I heale the torments of my love,
Thus doe I ransome my inthralled e