Phil.  That’s some comfort yet; He shall not be a king.

Queen.  He never shall.  But you are discomposed; Stay here a little; I have somewhat for you, Shall shew, you still are in my favour.

[Exeunt Queen and ASTERIA.

Enter to him CANDIOPE, weeping.

Phil.  How now, in tears, my fair Candiope? 
So, through a watry cloud,
The sun, at once, seems both to weep and shine. 
For what forefather’s sin do you afflict
Those precious eyes?  For sure you have
None of your own to weep.

Cand.  My crimes both great and many needs must shew, Since heaven will punish them with losing you.

Phil.  Afflictions, sent from heaven without a cause,
Make bold mankind enquire into its laws. 
But heaven, which moulding beauty takes such care,
Makes gentle fates on purpose for the fair: 
And destiny, that sees them so divine,
Spins all their fortunes in a silken twine: 
No mortal hand so ignorant is found,
To weave coarse work upon a precious ground.

Cand.  Go preach this doctrine in my mother’s ears.

Phil.  Has her severity produced these tears?

Cand.  She has recalled those hopes she gave before, And strictly bids me ne’er to see you more.

Phil.  Changes in froward age are natural;
Who hopes for constant weather in the fall? 
’Tis in your power your duty to transfer,
And place that right in me, which was in her.

Cand.  Reason, like foreign foes, would ne’er o’ercome,
But that I find I am betrayed at home;
You have a friend, that fights for you within.

Phil.  Let reason ever lose, so love may win.

Enter Queen with a picture in her hand, and ASTERIA

Queen.  See there, Asteria,
All we have done succeeds still to the worse;
We hindered him from seeing her at home,
Where I but only heard they loved; and now
She comes to court, and mads me with the sight on’t.

Ast.  Dear madam, overcome yourself a little, Or they’ll perceive how much you are concerned.

Queen.  I struggle with my heart—­
But it will have some vent. 
Cousin, you are a stranger at the court. [To CAND.

Cand.  It was my duty, I confess, To attend oftner on your majesty.

Queen.  Asteria, mend my cousin’s handkerchief;
It sits too narrow there, and shows too much
The broadness of her shoulders—­Nay, fie, Asteria,
Now you put it too much backward, and discover
The bigness of her breasts.

Cand.  I beseech your majesty, Give not yourself this trouble.

Queen.  Sweet cousin, you shall pardon me;
A beauty such as yours
Deserves a more than ordinary care,
To set it out. 
Come hither, Philocles, do but observe,
She has but one gross fault in all her shape,
That is, she bears up here too much,
And the malicious workman has left it
Open to your eye.