Cla.  Would heaven you could!  How coldly in this cause
Doe I perswade! when I would speake, my heart
Checks its bold orator, my tongue, and tells it
Tis traitorous to its Mr.—­Noble Sir, [kneele
I doe conceit you infinitly good,
So pittiful that mercy is in you
Even naturally superlative, (forgive me,
If I offend) you doe in this transgresse
Humanity, to let a lady love you
Without requitall.  But I must professe
To heaven and you, that here Ile fix to earth,
Weepe till I am a statue, but Ile gaine
Your pitie for her:  pray consider ont.

Thu.  Consider ont? wonder has soe engrossd
To its wild use all corners of my heart
That there remaines scarce one poore concave left
To hold consideration.  I must either
Love her I hate or see her whome I love
Wilfully perish.  See, shee kneeles and weeps,
Prays as she meant to expiate all the sinns
Earth ere committed.  One of those pure drops
Does (as my lives blood in a soddaine trance)
Surround my heart.  You have prevaild, arise: 
At your request I will performe an act,
Which may no story hold least all who love
Hereafter curse the president,—­Ile love her. 
That deathfull word comes from my torturd soule
As a consent doth from a timorous maid
For an enforcing ravisher.

Tho.  You are not mad, sir? what doe you meane?

Cla.  I thanke you. 
But love her dearely, Thurston, sheele deserv’t: 
I doe remember, when my Father livd,
How he would praise her goodnes.  Think on me
As one that lovd you well, but neer like her;
And, if you please, bestow each day a kisse
Uppon her in my memory.  Soe, farewell.—­
Sorrows flow high:  one griefe succeed another;
I die in piety to redeeme my Mother. [Exit.

Tho.  But, harke you, sir, do you intend to love her.

Thu.  Good sir, torment me not.

    Enter Grimes.

Grimes.  By your leave, gentlemen:  good Mr. Thorowgood, a word or two in private.

Thu.  Compeld to love my enemy! what man,
That had but so much spiritt as a mule,
Could suffer this!  Lay nice prescriptions,
Ambiguous bookmen, on submissive slaves;
Affright with terror of a wilfull death
Those whom black murders of inhumane sin
Has living damnd; Ime yet in my owne heart
White as a babe, as Innocent as light
From any mortall guilt; and were my soule
Drawn fro this mew[119] of flesh twould quickly streatch
Like a swift Falkon her aspiring wings
And soare at heaven.  Nature instructs us Death
Is due to all:  how can’t be then a Sinn
To die, or he more guilty of offense
That kills himselfe or [than?] he who in his bed
Some shivoring ague murders?  Ime resol[v’]d;
Ile rather chuse to immolate my life
In Martirdome to virtue then reserve’t
Till it be staind with mischiefes.