Leon. First scorned, and now commanded from the court! 
The king is good; but he is wrought to this
By proud Argaleon’s malice. 
What more disgrace can love and fortune join
To inflict upon one man?  I cannot now
Behold my dear Palmyra:  She, perhaps, too,
Is grown ashamed of a mean ill-placed love.

Amal. Assist me, Venus, for I tremble when I am to speak, but I must force myself. [Aside. Sir, I would crave but one short minute with you, And some few words.

Leon. The proud Argaleon’s sister! [Aside.

Amal. Alas! it will not out; Shame stops my mouth.
          
                                                   [Aside.
Pardon my error, sir; I was mistaken,
And took you for another.

Leon. In spite of all his guards, I’ll see Palmyra; [Aside. Though meanly born, I have a kingly soul.

Amal. I stand upon a precipice, where fain I would retire, but love still thrusts me on:  Now I grow bolder, and will speak to him. [Aside. Sir, ’tis indeed to you that I would speak, And if—­

Leon. O, you are sent to scorn my fortunes?  Your sex and beauty are your privilege; But should your brother—­

Amal. Now he looks angry, and I dare not speak.  I had some business with you, sir, But ’tis not worth your knowledge.

Leon. Then ’twill be charity to let me mourn My griefs alone, for I am much disordered.

Amal. ’Twill be more charity to mourn them with you:  Heaven knows I pity you.

Leon. Your pity, madam, Is generous, but ’tis unavailable.

Amal. You know not till ’tis tried.  Your sorrows are no secret; you have lost A crown, and mistress.

Leon. Are not these enough?  Hang two such weights on any other soul, And see if it can bear them.

Amal. More; you are banished, by my brother’s means,
And ne’er must hope again to see your princess;
Except as prisoners view fair walks and streets,
And careless passengers going by their grates,
To make them feel the want of liberty. 
But, worse than all,
The king this morning has enjoined his daughter
To accept my brother’s love.

Leon. Is this your pity?  You aggravate my griefs, and print them deeper, In new and heavier stamps.

Amal. ’Tis as physicians show the desperate ill,
To endear their art, by mitigating pains
They cannot wholly cure:  When you despair
Of all you wish, some part of it, because
Unhoped for, may be grateful; and some other—­

Leon. What other?

Amal. Some other may—­ My shame again has seized me, and I can go [Aside. No farther.

Leon. These often failing sighs and interruptions Make me imagine you have grief like mine:  Have you ne’er loved?