_Jul_. You need not beg me:
I would as soon meet a syren, as see him.
_Hip_. His sweetness for those frowns no subject finds:
Seas are the field of combat for the winds:
But when they sweep along some flowery coast,
Their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
_Jul_. 'Tis that which makes me more unfortunate;
Because his sweetness must upbraid my hate.
The wounds of fortune touch me not so near;
I can my fate, but not his virtue, bear.
For my disdain with my esteem is raised;
He most is hated when he most is praised:
Such an esteem, as like a storm appears,
Which rises but to shipwreck what it bears.
_Hip_. Infection dwells upon my kindness, sure,
Since it destroys even those whom it would cure.
[_Cries, and exit_.
_Amid_. Still weep, Hippolito; to me thy tears
Are sovereign, as those drops the balm-tree sweats.--
But, madam, are you sure you shall not love him?
I still fear.--
_Jul_. Thy fear will never let thee be a man.
_Amid_. Indeed I think it won't.
_Jul_. We are now
Alone; what news from Roderick?
_Amid_. Madam, he begs you not to fear; he has
A way, which, when you think all desperate,
Will set you free.
_Jul_. If not, I will not live
A moment after it.
_Amid_. Why? there's some comfort.
_Jul_.
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