Duke.  Your humble servant, bound by a sweet kisse.

Valen.  I give you freedome, gentle Sir, by this.
                                 [He whispers her. 
I know your mind; first censure of the sport,
Then you and I will enter Venus Court.

Duke.  More then immortall, O more then divine, That such perfection, should turne Concubine.

Mon.  That voice is like unto the Saxon Dukes. 
I feare he hath heard I liv’d here in this place,
And he is come to doe me more disgrace.
Montano, hide thyself till he be gone;
His daughter thirsts for my destruction.
                                     [Exit Mont.

Val.  Come sit by me, the Maskers are at hand.

Enter Maske.

Where are my Maides, to helpe to make the dance?

Enter 2 Maids.

They dance, Valentia with them; they whisper to have
her play at dice and stake on the drum_.

Valen.  What, shall we have a Mumming? heres my Jewell.

[Play on the drum head.

Duke.  Thou art a jewell most incomparable.—­ Malicious heaven, why from so sweete a face Have you exempt the mind adorning grace?

[They stake and play.

She wins, the drum strikes up.

Val.  More gold, for this is mine, I thanke yee, dice.

Duke.  And so are all that doe behold thy beautie.—­
Were she as chaste, as she is outward bright,
Earth would be heaven, and heaven eternal night. 
The more I drinke of her delicious eye,
The more I plunge into captivitie.

She wins, strike up.

Valen.  Have I wonne all? then take that back agen. 
What, scorne my gift?  I see you are a gentleman. 
No, is’t not possible that I may know
Unto whose kindnesse this great debt I owe? 
Well, Ile not be importunate, farewell;
Some of your gold let the torch-bearers tell.

Duke.  Beautious Madona, do you know these galants?

Valen.  I guesse them of the Duke of Saxons Court.

Duke.—­My subjects, and so many my corrivalls O every slave is grac’t before his Prince.

Valen.  Are you not well sir, that your colour failes?

Duke.  If I be sicke, ’tis onely in the minde: 
To see so faire, so common to all kinde;
I am growne jealous now of all the world.—­
Lady, how ere you prize me, without pleasure
More then a kisse, I tender you this treasure;
O what’s a mint spent in such desire
But like a sparke that makes a greater fire?—­
She must be made my Dutches, there it goes;
And marrying her, I marry thousand woes.—­
Adiew, kind Mistresse;—­the next newes you heare
Is to sit crown’d in an Imperiall chair.[185]

Valen.  Either the man dislikes me, or his braine
Is not his owne, to give such gifts in vaine,
But ’tis the custome in this age to cast
Gold upon gold, to encourage men to waste. 
Lightly it comes, and it shall lightly flie;
Whilst colours hold, such presents cannot die.