Ast.  This, though unjust, you have most right to say; For, if you’ll rail against yourself, you may.

Phil.  Dull that I was! 
A thousand things now crowd my memory. 
That make me know it could be none but I.
Her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame,
Like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came. 
But in her kindness my own shame I see;
Have I dethroned her, then for loving me? 
I hate myself for that which I have done,
Much more, discovered, than I did unknown. 
How does she brook her strange imprisonment?

Ast.  As great souls should, that make their own content. 
The hardest term, she for your act could find,
Was only this, O Philocles, unkind! 
Then, setting free a sigh, from her fair eyes
She wiped two pearls, the remnant of wild showers,
Which hung like drops upon the bells of flowers: 
And thanked the heavens,
Which better did, what she designed, pursue,
Without her crime, to give her power to you.

Phil.  Hold, hold! you set my thoughts so near a crown,
They mount above my reach, to pull them down: 
Here constancy, ambition there does move;
On each side beauty, and on both sides love.

Ast.  Methinks the least you can, is to receive This love with reverence, and your former leave.

Phil.  Think but what difficulties come between!

Ast.  ’Tis wondrous difficult to love a queen.

Phil.  For pity, cease more reasons to provide,
I am but too much yielding to your side;
And, were my heart but at my own dispose,
I should not make a scruple now to chuse.

Ast.  Then if the queen will my advice approve, Her hatred to you shall expel her love.

Phil.  Not to be loved by her as hard would be, As to be hated by Candiope.

Ast.  I leave you to resolve while you have time;
You must be guilty, but may chuse your crime. [Exit ASTERIA.

Phil.  One thing I have resolved; and that I’ll do,
Both for my love, and for my honour too;
But then (ingratitude and falsehood weighed),
I know not which would most my soul upbraid. 
Fate shoves me headlong down a rugged way;
Unsafe to run, and yet too steep to stay. [Exit PHIL.

ACT V.

SCENE I.—­The Court.

FLORIMEL in man’s habit.

Flor.  ’Twill be rare now, if I can go through with it, to outdo this mad Celadon in all his tricks, and get both his mistresses from him; then I shall revenge myself upon all three, and save my own stake into the bargain; for I find I do love the rogue, in spite of all his infidelities.  Yonder they are, and this way they must come.  If clothes and a bon mien will take them, I shall do it.—­Save you, Monsieur Florimel!  Faith, me thinks you are a very janty fellow, poudre et ajuste, as well as the best of ’em.  I can manage the little comb; set my hat, shake my garniture, toss about my empty noddle, walk with a courant slur, and at every step peck down my head:  If I should be mistaken for some courtier now, pray where’s the difference?