round about: see you my love?
Rodoricke, look round about: see you my love?

_Lew_. I see her not.

_Rod_. Nor I.

_Phil_. I say not so:
The garments that she weares mine eye should know.
What Lady's this that hides her heavenly face?
Here are no Basilisks with killing eyes:
You need not hide your beauty: sweet, look up,
Me thinks I have an interest in these lookes.
What's here? a Leper amongst Noble men?
What creatures thys? why stayes she in this place?
Oh, tis no marvell though she hide her face,
For tis infectious: let her leave the presence,
Or Leprosie will cleave unto us all.

_Bel_. O let me leave the presence, gentle father,
When Philip bids his Bellamira goe.

_Phil_. My Bellamira!

_Lew_. How? my sonnes belov'd!

_Phil_. Is this my love? was this your beauteous child?

_Nav_. My child.

_Ferd_. My sister.

_Pem_. Beauteous Bellamira.

_Nav_. Spotted.

_Ferd_. Disfigured.

_Pem_. Made a loathsome Leper.

_Rod_. How came this sudden alteration?
For she was comely, lovely, beautiful,
When the day left his Charriot to the night.

_Nav_. That heaven doth know, and onely Bellamira.
Daughter, I charge thee, tell me how it came.

_Bell_. Burbon, oh Burbon,--

_Lew_. Did he doe the deed?

_Bell_. He came into my Tent at dead of night
And rubd my face with an infectuous herbe
Because I would not graunt unto his love.
I cry'd for helpe, but none did succour me.

_Rod_.--I know he did and laugh to thinke on [i]t.

_Lew_. And he shall rue his treason.

_Phil_. Threaten not;
Leave the revenge to me whom it concernes.
Tis I am robd of a delicious looke,
A heavenly sparkling brow, a starry eye,
A countenance fayrer than Auroraes lookes
When all the East is guilded with her blush.
Tis I will be reveng'd, but not before
I have espoused my lovely Bellamira.

_Lew_. Espoused her!

_Nav_. How? marry a face deform'd!

_Ferd_. A leprous creature!

_Pem_. An infectuous mayd!

_Rod_. One whose sores are perchance incureable!

_Phil_. Be they incureable, it is my Love,
And for my sake she hath indur'd this wrong;
And should I now forsake her thus distrest
I could not merit a true Lovers name.
To shew I love her I will marry her
Before the moneth expire, nay in the morne:
Delayes, perchance, may make her think I scorne.

_Bel_. Marry with me? fetch me a looking glasse
That I may see how sweet a bride I am.
Oh I detest my selfe. Deare, hate me, too:
I am not to be maryed but to death.