mounting fire, and on her tender cheeks
Inevitable colour, in her heart
A prison for all virtue? Are not you,
Which is above all joys, my constant friend?
What sadness can I have? No; I am light,
And feel the courses of my blood more warm
And stirring than they were. ’Faith, marry too:
And you will feel so unexpress’d a joy
In chaste embraces, that you will indeed
Appear another.

Mel. You may shape, Amintor,
Causes to cozen the whole world withal,
And yourself too: but ’tis not like a friend,
To hide your soul from me. ’Tis not your nature
To be thus idle: I have seen you stand
As you were blasted, ’midst of all your mirth;
Call thrice aloud, and then start, feigning joy
So coldly!—World, what do I hear? a friend
Is nothing. Heaven, I would have told that man
My secret sins! I’ll search an unknown land,
And there plant friendship; all is wither’d here.
Come with a compliment! I would have fought,
Or told my friend“he lied,” ere sooth’d him so.
Out of my bosom!

Amin. But there is nothing—

Mel. Worse and worse! farewell!
From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.

Amin. Melantius, stay: You shall know what it is.

Mel. See, how you play’d with friendship! Be advised
How you give cause unto yourself to say,
You have lost a friend.

Amin. Forgive what I have done;
For I am so o’ergone with injuries
Unheard of, that I lose consideration
Of what I ought to do. Oh, oh!

Mel. Do not weep.
What is it? May I once but know the man
Hath turn’d my friend thus!

Amin. I had spoke at first,
But that—

Mel. But what?

Amin. I held it most unfit
For you to know. ’Faith, do not know it yet.

Mel. Thou see’st my love, that will keep company
With thee in tears! hide nothing, then, from me:
For when I know the cause of thy distemper,
With mine old armour I’ll adorn myself,
My resolution, and cut through my foes,
Unto thy quiet; till I place thy heart
As peaceable as spotless innocence.
What is it?

Amin. Why, ’tis this—It is too big
To get out—Let my tears make way awhile.

Mel. Punish me strangely, Heaven, if he ’scape
Of life or fame, that brought this youth to this!

Amin. Your sister—

Mel. Well said.

Amin. You will wish’t unknown,
When you have heard it.

Mel. No.

Amin. Is much to blame,
And to the king has given her honour up,
And lives in whoredom with him.

Mel. How is this?
Thou art run mad with injury, indeed;
Thou couldst not utter this else. Speak again;
For I forgive it freely; tell thy griefs.

Amin. She’s wanton: I am loth to say,“a whore,”
Though it be true.

Mel. Speak yet again, before mine anger grow
Up, beyond throwing down: What are thy griefs?