You are no maiden, but a monument :

When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now, for you are cold and stern ;
And now you should be as your mother was.

Dia. She then was honest.

I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows:

I was compell'd to her; but I love thee

By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.

Dia.
Ay, so you serve us
Till we serve you: but when you have our roses,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

No:

How have I sworn!

Dia. 'Tis not the many oaths that make the truth;

But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness. Then, pray you, tell

me,

If I should swear by Jove's great attributes

I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

When I did love you ill?

This has no holding,
To swear by him when I protest to Jove,

That I will work against him: therefore, your oaths
Are words and poor conditions, but unseal'd;

At least, in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it;

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts

That

you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say, thou art mine, and ever
My love, as it begins, shall so persever.

Dia. I see, that men make hopes, in such a case,2
That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power
To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord? Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house, Bequeathed down from many ancestors; Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour's such a ring:
My chastity's the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors;

Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion honour on my part,
Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine,

And I'll be bid by thee.

Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my chamber window; I'll order take, my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me:

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them,

When back again this ring shall be deliver❜d:

And on your finger, in the night, I'll put
Another ring; that, what in time proceeds,
May token to the future our past deeds.

Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won

A wife of me, though there my hope be done.

Ber. A heaven on earth I have won, by wooing thee.

[Exit.

Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven and me! You may so in the end.

My mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in his heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me
When his wife's dead; therefore I'll lie with him
When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,3
Marry that will, I live and die a maid:
Only, in this disguise, I think 't no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

[Exit.

SCENE III.-The Florentine Camp.

Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.

First Lord. You have not given him his mother's letter?

Second Lord. I have delivered it an hour since. There is something in't that stings his nature; for, on the reading it, he changed almost into another man.

First Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

Second Lord. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

First Lord. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

Second Lord. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition. First Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion; as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Second Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself.

First Lord. We shall not then have his company to-night?
Second Lord. Not till after midnight.

First Lord. That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his company anatomised; that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

Second Lord. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.

First Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars? Second Lord. I hear, there is an overture of peace.

First Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

Second Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France ?

First Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

Second Lord. Let it be forbid, sir! so should I be a great deal of his act.

First Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his house; her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking, with most austere sanctimony, she accomplished: and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last. breath, and now she sings in heaven.

Second Lord. How is this justified?

First Lord. The stronger part of it by her own letters; which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

Second Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence?

First Lord. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.

Second Lord. I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this. First Lord. How mightily, sometimes, we make us comforts of our losses!

Second Lord. And how mightily, some other times, we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here

acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

First Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.—

Enter a Servant.

How now! where's your master?

Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave; his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

Second Lord. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

First Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the king's tartness. Here's his lordship now.

Enter BERTRAM.

How now, my lord, is't not after midnight?

Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen businesses, a month's length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have conge'd with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my lady-mother I am returning; entertained my convoy; and, between these main parcels of despatch, effected many nicer needs; the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

Second Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier?-Come, bring forth this counterfeit model; he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier.

Second Lord. Bring him forth [Exeunt Soldiers]: he has sat in the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.