Siege, The: Or, Love's Convert, A Tragi-Comedy - Act 3. Scene 6


Sced . What Policy is this and't please the Gods?
Ter . The sign o'th' Tyrant gazing on the Virgin.
Nic . Here's more work for my Pencill than my Sword.
Eud . What? stand you fix'd as he? I thought there would
Have been that loyall strife who should have first
Let out that Bloud that covets yours.
Epig . Shall we
Fight with a Statue?
Eud . Flesh and bloud I warrant y
No part is stone about him, but his Heart.
Through which, though hardned so, I'l find a Passage.
Eud. makes at him . Euth. steps between .
Eut . But through me first: the Sword hath more to do
Than you suspect.
Eud . Will you dye too for Company?

Pat . You are my Enemy if you wrong my Daughter.
Euth . This is a part of Fury, not of Valour.
Where heavy sadness hath quite tane away
All life and Soul, will you add more wounds yet,
And kill him that's already dead? you shall not
Disgrace your former deeds with such an Action.
Eud . What? a she Champion?
Eut . That I am a woman
Cannot take off from vertuous deeds; my Soul's
As Male as yours; there's no Sex in the mind.
Eud . New Tenents to defend new Prodigies.
Was't this you went along for? Can you see him
Gazing upon these Wounds he made, and yet
Not give him one himself? Look how he takes
Delight in's Act ev'n to an Extasie.
Sced . Wee'l strike when he may feel it: 'twere an Act
Of pitty to destroy him now; you see
He takes no notice, and makes no resistance.
Eud . 'Tis only Beauty moves his wanton Eye;
Hee's blind to all besides. 'Tis not his time
To strike as yet, his Blow's at Midnight still.
Were't dark he would bestir himself; he dares
Do nothing when 'tis day: besides wee're Men;
He only shews his strength on feeble Virgins.
Were we but Women all our Blouds should run
Mixt in one common stream. You shall not stay me:
I'l sacrifice him to my wronged Daughter,
Whom he thus tortures.
Euth . If that Love can torture
He is her punishment: hee's so tender of her
That he hath not once clos'd his Eyes, since first
He wounded her, but sits thus musing still,
Scarce breathing any time, except it be
To set a sigh at liberty: he is
Almost run Frantick for this hard mischance.
Pat . You see, Eudemus , Heaven hath begun
To take revenge upon him, doe not interest
A mortall spight i'th'quarrell of the Gods.
Leave them to perfect what they've took in hand.
Terp . Ne'r let me eat more if I could not cry
To see him how he looks — — yfaith he loves her.
Eud . Think you that this is out of tendernesse
He thus takes care of her? he doth but strive
To make her fit to fall again; she must
Either endure his Anger, or his Lust
The worse Plague of the two. If that you love her,
Pray Heav'n she ne'r awake.
Epig . You are too bitter;
You have too much o'th'Father in you;'tis
Your Passion speaks.
Eud . You are not Citizens,
That think this Injury my private one;
Not Souldiers, that let fall your swords, when that
Y' are come unto the point of Action;
Not Friends, in that you think 't my privat wrong,
And yet not strive to vindicate me: tis
Heaven's will my sword should only be ennobled
In this Designe. I will perform't — —
Euth . You shall not.
Pat . Keep off Eudemus .
Eud . What Patacion turn'd
Misander's Bawd?
Euth . Most passionate Man, you wrong
My Reverend Father, and your Daughter too:
I'm certain his Love's good; Lust never yet
Could look so quiet and so peaceable.
Terp . Well, if it be a trick, he do's't as well
As e'r I saw one yet: yfaith hee'd make
A very pretty Actor in my Judgment.
Perhaps 'tis but his Image, there have been
Such tricks e'r now; pull him but by the Nose
And we shall quickly see — — But hold! who's here?
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.