Arb.

  Why credit me Panthea,
  Credit me that am thy brother,
  Thy loving brother, that there is a cause
  Sufficient, yet unfit for thee to know,
  That might undoe thee everlastingly,
  Only to hear, wilt thou but credit this? 
  By Heaven ’tis true, believe it if thou canst.

Pan.

  Children and fools are ever credulous,
  And I am both, I think, for I believe;
  If you dissemble, be it on your head;
  I’le back unto my prison:  yet me-thinks
  I might be kept in some place where you are;
  For in my self, I find I know not what
  To call it, but it is a great desire
  To see you often.

Arb.

  Fie, you come in a step, what do you mean? 
  Dear sister, do not so:  Alas Panthea,
  Where I am would you be?  Why that’s the cause
  You are imprison’d, that you may not be
  Where I am.

Pan.

Then I must indure it Sir, Heaven keep you.

Arb.

  Nay, you shall hear the case in short Panthea,
  And when thou hear’st it, thou wilt blush for me,
  And hang thy head down like a Violet
  Full of the mornings dew:  There is a way
  To gain thy freedome, but ’tis such a one
  As puts thee in worse bondage, and I know,
  Thou wouldst encounter fire, and make a proof
  Whether the gods have care of innocence,
  Rather than follow it:  Know that I have lost,
  The only difference betwixt man and beast,
  My reason.

Pan.

  Heaven forbid.

Arb.

  Nay ’tis gone;
  And I am left as far without a bound,
  As the wild Ocean, that obeys the winds;
  Each sodain passion throwes me where it lists,
  And overwhelms all that oppose my will: 
  I have beheld thee with a lustfull eye;
  My heart is set on wickedness to act
  Such sins with thee, as I have been afraid
  To think of, if thou dar’st consent to this,
  Which I beseech thee do not, thou maist gain
  Thy liberty, and yield me a content;
  If not, thy dwelling must be dark and close,
  Where I may never see thee; For heaven knows
  That laid this punishment upon my pride,
  Thy sight at some time will enforce my madness
  To make a start e’ne to thy ravishing;
  Now spit upon me, and call all reproaches
  Thou canst devise together, and at once
  Hurle’em against me:  for I am a sickness
  As killing as the plague, ready to seize thee.

Pan.

  Far be it from me to revile the King: 
  But it is true, that I shall rather choose
  To search out death, that else would search out me,
  And in a grave sleep with my innocence,
  Than welcome such a sin:  It is my fate,
  To these cross accidents I was ordain’d,
  And must have patience; and but that my eyes
  Have more of woman in ’em than my heart,
  I would not weep:  Peace enter you again.