_Hen_. Will defend thee! Have I a life, a soule that in thy service I would not wish expird! I doe but borrow My selfe from thee.
_Ele_. Rather you put to Interest And, for that principall you have credited To _Eleonora_ her heart is paid backe As the iust Usury.
_Hen_. You undoe me, sweet, With too much love; if ere I marry thee I feare thou'lt kill me.
_Hen_. With tendring me too much, my _Eleonora_; For in my conscience thou'lt extreamely love me, And extreames often kill.
_Ele_. There can be no extreme of love[21], sir.
_Hen_. Yes, but there may; and some say Jealousy Runs from the Sea, a rivolet but deducted From the mayne Channell.
_Hen_. Have you not heard men have been killd with Joy? Our griefe doth but contract the heart, & gladnesse Dilate the same; and soo too much of eyther Is hott i'th' fourth degree.
_Ele_. Sir, your discourse Is stuff of severall pieces and knitts not With that you usd but now: if we can practize A vertuous love there's no hurt to exceed in't. --What doe you, Sir?
_Ele_. Why doe you eye me soe? this is not usuall. Are you well?
_Ele_. Pray heaven it bode me no unhappinesse! How doth my father?
_Hen_. What Babyes[22], prety one? Thy owne face, naught else; I receive that way all this beauty into My heart, and 'tis perhaps come backe to looke Out at the window. Come, Ile winke againe, It shall not trouble you:--hence my trayterous thoughts.
_Hen_. Indeed I am not; all's not well within me. Why should I be a villaine? _Eleonora_ Doe not looke on me; turne those eyes away, They would betray thee to thy sorrow; or Lett me by parting carry along with me That which to know undoes thee.
_Ele_. Good heaven defend! I have a soveraigne Balme. [_Exit_.
_Hen_. Vanish, you ugly shapes, & with her presence Quitt your sharp stings! into what monstrous creature Feele I myself a-growing! yet I cannot Force backe the streame, it comes so fast upon me; I cannot.
_Ele_. Here, good _Henrico_, let me see your wound.
_Hen_. No, I am well againe; thankes, my best love. Come, let us walke and talke; I had a fancy, But 'tis no matter:--_Buzzano_!
_Hen_. Lay it up safe; 'tis good for a greene wound But mines a blacke one:--and d'you heare, sirra, Draw up the bridge, give entrance unto none.