s Bel-imperias sake;
For twas my fauour at his last depart.
But now weare thou it both for him and me;
For, after him, thou hast deserued it best.
But, for thy kindnes in his life and death,
Be sure, while Bel-imperias life endures,
She will be Don Horatios thankfull freend.

HOR. And, madame, Don Horatio will not slacke
Humbly to serue faire Bel-imperia.
But now, if your good liking stand thereto,
Ile craue your pardon to goe seeke the prince;
For so the duke, your father, gaue me charge.

Exit.

BEL. I, goe, Horatio; leaue me heere alone,
For solitude best fits my cheereles mood.--
Yet what auailes to waile Andreas death,
From whence Horatio proues my second loue?
Had he not loued Andrea as he did,
He could not sit in Bel-imperias thoughts.
But how can loue finde harbour in my brest,
Till I reuenge the death of my beloued?
Yes, second loue shall further my reuenge:
Ile loue Horatio, my Andreas freend,
The more to spight the prince that wrought his end;
And, where Don Balthazar, that slew my loue,
He shall, in rigour of my iust disdaine,
Reape long repentance for his murderous deed,--
For what wast els but murderous cowardise,
So many to oppresse one valiant knight,
Without respect of honour in the fight?
And heere he comes that murdred my delight.

Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.

LOR. Sister, what meanes this melanchollie walke?

BEL. That for a-while I wish no company.

LOR. But heere the prince is come to visite you.

BEL. That argues that he liues in libertie.

BAL. No madam, but in pleasing seruitude.

BEL. Your prison then, belike, is your conceit.

BAL. I, by conceite my freedome is enthralde.

BEL. Then with conceite enlarge your-selfe againe.

BAL. What if conceite haue laid my hart to gage?

BEL. Pay that you borrowed, and recouer it.

BAL. I die if it returne from whence it lyes.

BEL. A hartles man, and liue? A miracle!

BAL. I, lady, loue can work such miracles.

LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let goe these ambages,
And in plaine tearmes acquaint her with your loue.

BEL. What bootes complaint, when thers no remedy?

BAL. Yes, to your gracios selfe must I complaine,
In whose faire answere lyes my remedy,
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend,
On whose aspect mine eye