Ast.  Madam, you commanded me no more to name him to you.

Queen.  Then I command you now, speak of nothing else:—­ I charge you here, on your allegiance, tell me What I should do with him?

Ast.  When you gave orders that he should be taken, You seemed resolved how to dispose of him.

Queen.  Dull Asteria! not to know,
Mad people never think the same thing twice!—­
Alas!  I’m hurried restless up and down:—­
I was in anger once, and then I thought
I had put into shore: 
But now a gust of love blows hard against me,
And bears me off again.

Ast.  Shall I sing the song, you made of Philocles, And called it Secret Love?

Queen.  Do; for that’s all kindness.  And while thou singest it, I can think nothing but what pleases me.

SONG.

I feed a flame within, which so torments me,
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: 
’Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love if,
That I had rather die, than once remove it.

Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. 
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,
My heart’s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel: 
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me: 
To be more happy, I dare not aspire;
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher_.

Queen.  Peace!—­Methinks I hear the noise Of clashing swords, and clattering arms below.

Enter FLAVIA.

Now; what news, that you press in so rudely?

Fla.  Madam, the worst that can be:—­ Your guards upon the sudden are surprised, Disarmed; some slain; all scattered.

Queen.  By whom?

Fla.  Prince Lysimantes, and Lord Philocles.

Queen.  It cannot be; Philocles is a prisoner.

Fla.  What my eyes saw,—­

Queen.  Pull them out; they are false spectacles.

Ast.  O, virtue! impotent and blind as fortune!  Who would be good, or pious, if this queen, Thy great example, suffers!

Queen.  Peace, Asteria! accuse not virtue;
She has but given me a great occasion
Of showing what I am, when fortune leaves me.

Ast.  Philocles to do this!

Queen.  Ay, Philocles!—­I must confess ’twas hard!—­
But there’s a fate in kindness,
Still to be least returned, where most ’tis given.—­
Where’s Candiope?

Fla.  Philocles was whispering to her.

Queen.  Hence, screech-owl!—­Call my guards quickly there!—­
Put them apart in several prisons!—­
Alas!  I had forgot, I have no guards,
But those which are my jailors. 
Never ’till now unhappy queen! 
The use of power, till lost, is seldom known;
Now, I should strike, I find my thunder gone.
[Exeunt Queen and FLAV.