Hub.  Yes, with full eare.

Belliz.  To your best thoughts I leave you;
I will but read, and answer this my Letter.
                                      [Exit.  Belliz.

Bellina.  Why do you, seeme to loose your eyes on me? 
Here’s nothing but a pile of wretchednesse;
A branch that every way is shooke at roote
And would (I think) even fall before you now,
But that Divinity which props it up
Inspires it full of comfort, since the Cause
My father suffers for gives a full glory
To his base fetters of Captivity. 
And I beseech you, Sir, if there but dwell
So much of Vertue in you as your lookes
Seeme to expresse possesse your honour’d thoughts,
Bestow your pitty on us, not your scorne;
And wish, for goodnesse sake and your soules weale,
You were a sharer in these sufferings,
So the same cause expos’d your fortunes too’t.

Hub.  Oh, happy woman, know I suffer more, And for a cause as iust.

Bellina.  Be proud then of that tryumph; but I am yet
A stranger to the Character of what
You say you suffer for.  Is it for Conscience?

Hub.  For love, divine perfection.

Bellina.  If of Heaven’s love, how rich is your reward!

Hub.  Of Heaven’s best blessing, your most perfect selfe.

Bellina.  Alas, Sir, here perfection keeps no Court,
Love dresses here no wanton amorous bowers;
Sorrow has made perpetuall winter here,
And all my thoughts are Icie, past the reach
Of what Loves fires can thaw.

Hub.  Oh doe but take away a part of that
My breast is full of, of that holy fire
The Queene of Loves faire Altar holds not purer
Nor more effectuall; and, sweet, if then
You melt not into passion for my wounds,
Effuse your Virgin vowes to chaine mine ears,
Weepe on my necke and with your fervent sighes
Infuse a soule of comfort into me;
He break the Altar of the foolish God,
Proclaime them guilty of Idolatry
That sacrifice to Cytheraeas sonne.

Bellina.  Did not my present fortunes and my vowes,
Register’d in the Records of Heaven,
Tye me too strictly from such thoughts as these,
I feare me I should softly yeeld to what
My yet condition has beene stranger to. 
To love, my Lord, is to be miserable.

Hub.  Oh to thy sweetnesse Envy would prove kind,
Tormentor humble, no pale Murderer;
And the Page of death a smiling Courtier.
Venus must then, to give thee noble welcome,
Perfume her Temple with the breath of Nunnes,
Not Vesta’s but her owne; with Roses strow
The paths that bring thee to her blessed shrine;
Cloath all her Altares in her richest Robes
And hang her walles with stories of such loves
Have rais’d her Tryumphs; and ’bove all at last
Record this day, the happy day in which
Bellina prov’d to love a Convertite. 
Be mercifull and save me.