[Exit Bac.

Tigr.

  She comes, she comes, shame hide me ever from her,
  Would I were buried, or so far remov’d
  Light might not find me out, I dare not see her.

Spa.

  Nay never hide your self; or were you hid
  Where earth hides all her riches, near her Center;
  My wrongs without more day would light me to you: 
  I must speak e’re I die; were all your greatness
  Doubled upon you, y’are a perjur’d man,
  And only mighty in your wickedness
  Of wronging women.  Thou art false, false Prince;
  I live to see it, poor Spaconia lives
  To tell thee thou art false; and then no more;
  She lives to tell thee thou art more unconstant,
  Than all ill women ever were together. 
  Thy faith is firm as raging over-flowes,
  That no bank can command; as lasting
  As boyes gay bubbles, blown i’th’ Air and broken: 
  The wind is fixt to thee:  and sooner shall
  The beaten Mariner with his shrill whistle
  Calm the loud murmur of the troubled main,
  And strike it smooth again; than thy soul fall
  To have peace in love with any:  Thou art all
  That all good men must hate; and if thy story
  Shall tell succeeding ages what thou wert,
  O let it spare me in it, lest true lovers
  In pity of my wrong, burn thy black Legend,
  And with their curses, shake thy sleeping ashes.

Tigr.

  Oh! oh!

Spa.

  The destinies, I hope, have pointed out
  Our ends, that thou maist die for love,
  Though not for me; for this assure thy self,
  The Princess hates thee deadly, and will sooner
  Be won to marry with a Bull, and safer
  Than such a beast as thou art:  I have struck,
  I fear, too deep; beshrow me for’t; Sir,
  This sorrow works me like a cunning friendship,
  Into the same piece with it; ’tis asham’d,
  Alas, I have been too rugged:  Dear my Lord,
  I am sorry I have spoken any thing,
  Indeed I am, that may add more restraint
  To that too much you have:  good Sir, be pleas’d
  To think it was a fault of love, not malice;
  And do as I will do, forgive it Prince. 
  I do, and can forgive the greatest sins
  To me you can repent of; pray believe.

Tigr.

  O my Spaconia!  O thou vertuous woman!

Spa.

  Nay, more, the King Sir.

Enter Arbaces, Bacurius, Mardonius.

Arb.

  Have you been carefull of our noble Prisoner,
  That he want nothing fitting for his greatness?

Bac.

  I hope his grace will quit me for my care Sir.

Arb.

  ’Tis well, royal Tigranes, health.

Tigr.

  More than the strictness of this place can give Sir,
  I offer back again to great Arbaces.