Bel.  My Lord of Burbon, you presume too much
On th’ extremity of passion. 
Have I not answerd many an idle letter
With full assurance that I cannot love? 
Have I not often viva voce checkt
Your courtly kindnes, frownd upon your smiles,
Usde you unkindly, all to weane your love? 
And doe you still persever in your suite? 
I tell thee, Burbon, this bold part of thine,
To breake into my Tent at dead of night,
Deserves severe correction, and the more
Because it brings mine honour into question. 
I charge thee, as thou art a Gentleman,
Betake thee to thine own Pavilion,
And let this answere satisfie for all: 
Burbon, I cannot nor I will not love thee.

Bur.  Cannot nor will not?  Zounds, Madam, but you must.

Bel.  Must I?

Bur.  And shall.

Bel You will not force me to it?

Bur.  Or force that sparkling beauty from your face. 
Looke not so fiercely nor cry out for helpe,
For if you doe this makes you cry your last. 
Seing neyther words, kind letters, hearty sighes. 
Humble intreaty nor a world of payne
Can move you to take pitty of my love,
But Tyrant-like your beauty seeks my life;
I will blot out that beauty with this juice. 
Thus, thus I wipe away my passions,
Thus doe I heale the torments of my love,
Thus doe I ransome my inthralled eye,
And by depriving of the cause of life
Kill th’ effect, which was a world of sorrow. 
Farewell, foule Bellamira; I am pleasde
In this revenge that no way could be easde. [Exit.

Rod.—­Zounds, he has don’t:  now, Roderick, joy thy fill. 
Burbon is thine, the Dukedome is thine owne,
For only he in the Inheritance
Stood as an obstacle to let my clayme. 
This deed of his will take away his life: 
And then let me alone to enjoy his land. 
Ile steale away unseene, cause unsuspected;
I would not for the world be once detected. [Exit.

Bel.  Poyson my face! oh most inhuman wretche! 
Revenge more vile then to abbridge my life. 
What, Thomasin!  What, brother Ferdinand! 
My kingly father! is there none that heares? 
Then Treason, treason! let that waken you,
For capitall is this offence to me.

    Enter Navar, Pembrooke, Ferdinand and Thomasin.

Tho.  O Jesu! mistris, what ayles your face?

Nav.  Her face!

Ferd.  Tis spotted like a Panthers skin.

Pem.  O were those spots as kindly beautiful Then were fayre Bellamira undeform’d.

Nav.  O what divine power hath sent this Leprosy?

Ferd.  Say, beautious Sister.

Pem.  Speake, fayre Bellamira.

Nav.  My sweet daughter, speake.

Pem.  Her silence argues a tormented spirit.