Emp. If I but hear her named, I’m sick that day;
The sound is mortal, and frights life away.—­
Forgive me, Arimant, my jealous thought: 
Distrust in lovers is the tenderest fault. 
Leave me, and tell thyself, in my excuse,
Love, and a crown, no rivalship can bear;
And precious things are still possessed with fear.
                                            [Exit ARIMANT, bowing.
This, madam, my excuse to you may plead;
Love should forgive the faults, which love has made.

Ind. From me, what pardon can you hope to have, Robbed of my love, and treated as a slave?

Emp. Force is the last relief which lovers find; And ’tis the best excuse of woman-kind.

Ind. Force never yet a generous heart did gain;
We yield on parley, but are stormed in vain. 
Constraint in all things makes the pleasure less;
Sweet is the love which comes with willingness.

Emp. No; ’tis resistance that inflames desire,
Sharpens the darts of love, and blows his fire. 
Love is disarmed, that meets with too much ease;
He languishes, and does not care to please: 
And therefore ’tis, your golden fruit you guard
With so much care,—­to make possession hard.

Ind. Was’t not enough, you took my crown away,
But cruelly you must my love betray? 
I was well pleased to have transferred my right,
And better changed your claim of lawless might,
By taking him, whom you esteemed above
Your other sons, and taught me first to love.

Emp. My son by my command his course must steer: 
I bade him love, I bid him now forbear. 
If you have any kindness for him still,
Advise him not to shock a father’s will.

Ind. Must I advise?  Then let me see him, and I’ll try to obey.

Emp. I had forgot, and dare not trust your way. 
But send him word,
He has not here an army to command: 
Remember, he and you are in my hand.

Ind. Yes, in a father’s hand, whom he has served,
And, with the hazard of his life, preserved. 
But piety to you, unhappy prince,
Becomes a crime, and duty an offence;
Against yourself you with your foes combine,
And seem your own destruction to design.

Emp. You may be pleased your politics to spare; I’m old enough, and can myself take care.

Ind. Advice from me was, I confess, too bold:  You’re old enough; it may be, sir, too old.

Emp. You please yourself with your contempt of age;
But love, neglected, will convert to rage. 
If on your head my fury does not turn,
Thank that fond dotage which so much you scorn;
But, in another’s person, you may prove,
There’s warmth for vengeance left, though not for love.

Re-enter ARIMANT.

Arim. The empress has the antichambers past, And this way moves with a disordered haste:  Her brows the stormy marks of anger bear.