Act IV

SCENE I.—The Apartment of the Princess in the Palace.

Enter GOBRIAS, PANTHEA, and SPACONIA.

Gob. Have you written, madam?

Pan. Yes, good Gobrias.

Gob. And with a kindness and such winning words
As may provoke him, at one instant, feel
His double fault, your wrong, and his own rashness?

Pan. I have sent words enough, if words may win him
From his displeasure; and such words, I hope,
As shall gain much upon his goodness, Gobrias.
Yet fearing, since they are many, and a woman’s,
A poor belief may follow, I have woven
As many truths within ’em to speak for me,
That if he be but gracious and receive ’em—

Gob. Good lady, be not fearful: Though he should not
Give you your present end in this, believe it,
You shall feel, if your virtue can induce you
To labour out this tempest (which, I know,
Is but a poor proof ’gainst your patience)
All those contents, your spirit will arrive at,
Newer and sweeter to you. Your royal brother,
When he shall once collect himself, and see
How far he has been asunder from himself,
What a mere stranger to his golden temper,
Must, from those roots of virtue, never dying,
Though somewhat stopt with humour, shoot again
Into a thousand glories, bearing his fair branches
High as our hopes can look at, strait as justice,
Loaden with ripe contents. He loves you dearly,
I know it, and, I hope, I need not further
Win you to understand it.

Pan. I believe it;
But, howsoever, I am sure I love him dearly;
So dearly, that if anything I write
For my enlarging should beget his anger,
Heaven be a witness with me, and my faith,
I had rather live entombed here.

Gob. You shall not feel a worse stroke than your grief;
I am sorry ’tis so sharp. I kiss your hand,
And this night will deliver this true story,
With this hand to your brother.

Pan. Peace go with you!
You are a good man.—

[Exit Gobrias.

Spa. Oh, dear lady!

Pan. Pr’ythee discover not a way to sadness,
Nearer than I have in me. Our two sorrows
Work, like two eager hawks, who shall get highest.
How shall I lessen thine? for mine, I fear,
Is easier known than cured.

Spa. Heaven comfort both,
And give yours happy ends, however I
Fall in my stubborn fortunes.

Pan. This but teaches
How to be more familiar with our sorrows,
That are too much our masters. Good Spaconia,
How shall I do you service?

Spa. Noblest lady,
You make me more a slave still to your goodness,
And only live to purchase thanks to pay you;
For that is all the business of my life now.
I will be bold, since you will have it so,
To ask a noble favour of you.

Pan. Speak it; ’tis yours; for, from so sweet a virtue,
No ill demand has issue.

Spa. Then, ever-virtuous, let me beg your will
In helping me to see the prince Tigranes;
With whom I am equal prisoner, if not more.