If This Be Not a Good Play – Act 4, Scene 3

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What art thou?

Daughter to the Calabriam duke
The hapless troth-plight to your sad king.

Alack!  What notes are these I hear you sing?
Pardon me, madam.
O Lady!  Want of you has bred much woe.
Calamity does every where o’erflow;
All long of your strange absence.                             [Drums afar off, marching.

I confess,
Loaden with your king’s contempt, and loath to bear
Shame to my country, who from thence came freighted
With many glorious honours, I preferr’d
An obscure life before a public shame;
O then, good father, be it not my blame
If my suppos’d death on the king hath thrown
Dangers which from himself are merely grown.

What, princely maiden, would you wish me do?

I do conjure you, sir, by all the bonds
Tie you to pious acts, you would make way
To my incensed father; give him these lines,
This ring, pledge of that blessing he deliver’d me
At our last parting; add unto these, if ever
His daughter’s memory to him were dear,
To would the prince let his rash hand forbear,
Since through each wound he gives him, I am slain.
If the sad king you meet, venture to tell him
That more for him, than he for me, I bide,
And am his subject still, though not his bride.

This shall I do.  How shall we meet again?

Fears follow me so, I know not where nor when.

Hark how the sound of horror beats the air!
Your father’s up in arms and does prepare
Sharp vengeance for this city; woe is me.  Trust you
To me, who ne’er made much of woman yet,
Rest his sweet maid till an old friar beget
What joys he can to comfort thee.  Is Clement grown
A woman man now?  No, I am not mine own
Where your command may sway me.  Much more in this,
Where Heaven, through virtue’s trial, makes you his.                         [Exeunt.


Proceed to the next scene


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