Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/21

 Duch. So, now the ground's broake, You may discover what a wealthy Mine, I make you Lord off.

Ant. Oh my unworthinesse.

Duch. You were ill to sell your selfe, This darkning of your worth, is not like that Which trades-men use i'th'City, their false lightes Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you If you will know where breathes a compleat man, (I speake it without flattery) turne your eyes, And progresse through your selfe.

Ant. Were there nor heaven, nor hell, I should be honest: I have long serv'd vertue, And nev'r tane wages of her.

Duch. Now she paies it, The misery of us, that are borne great, We are forc'd to woe, because none dare woe us: And as a Tyrant doubles with his words, And fearefully equivocates: so we Are forc'd to expresse our violent passions In ridles, and in dreames, and leave the path Of simple vertue, which was never made To seeme the thing it is not: Goe, go brag You have left me heartlesse, mine is in your bosome, I hope 'twill multiply love there: You doe tremble: Make not your heart so dead a peece of flesh To feare, more then to love me: Sir, be confident, What is't distracts you? This is flesh, and blood, (Sir,) 'Tis not the figure cut in Allablaster Kneeles at my husbands tombe: Awake, awake (man) I do here put of all vaine ceremony, And onely doe appeare to you, a yong widow That claimes you for her husband, and like a widow, I use but halfe a blush in't.

Ant. Truth speake for me, I will remaine the constant Sanctuary Of your good name.