Enter Don Henrique, Violante, Ascanio.

     H[en].

     Hear but my reasons.

     Viol.

     O my patience, hear ’em! 
     Can cunning falshood colour an excuse
     With any seeming shape of borrowed truth? 
     Extenuate this wofull wrong, not error?

     Hen.

     You gave consent that, to defeat my brother
     I should take any course.

     Vio.

     But not to make
     The cure more loathsom than the foul disease: 
     Was’t not enough you took me to your bed,
     Tir’d with loose dalliance, and with emptie veins,
     All those abilities spent before and wasted,
     That could confer the name of mother on me? 
     But that (to perfect my account of sorrow
     For my long barr[en]ness) you must heighten it
     By shewing to my face, that you were fruitfull
     Hug’d in the base embraces of another? 
     If Solitude that dwelt beneath my roof,
     And want of children was a torment to me,
     What end of my vexation to behold
     A bastard to upbraid me with my wants? 
     And hear the name of father paid to ye,
     Yet know my self no mother,
     What can I say?

     Hen.

     Shall I confess my fault and ask your pardon? 
     Will that content ye?

     Vio.

     If it could make void,
     What is confirm’d in Court:  no, no, Don Henrique,
     You shall know that I find my self abus’d,
     And adde to that, I have a womans anger,
     And while I look upon this Basilisk,
     Whose envious eyes have blasted all my comforts
     Rest confident I’le study my dark ends,
     And not your pleasures.

     Asc.

     Noble Lady, hear me,
     Not as my Fathers son, but as your servant,
     Vouchsafe to hear me, for such in my duty,
     I ever will appear:  and far be it from
     My poor ambition, ever to look on you,
     But with that reverence, which a slave stands bound
     To pay a worthy Mistris:  I have heard
     That Dames of highest place, nay Queens themselves
     Disdain not to be serv’d by such as are
     Of meanest Birth:  and I shall be most happie,
     To be emploi’d when you please to command me
     Even in the coursest office, as your Page,
     I can wait on your trencher, fill your wine,
     Carry your pantofles, and be sometimes bless’d
     In all humilitie to touch your feet: 
     Or if that you esteem that too much grace,
     I can run by your Coach:  observe your looks,
     And hope to gain a fortune by my service,
     With your good favour, which now, as a Son,
     I dare not challenge.

     Vio.

     As a Son?

     Asc.