_Queen_. Were he indeed the man, you had some reason;
But 'tis another, more without my power,
And yet a subject too.
_Phil_. O, madam, say not so:
It cannot be a subject, if not he;
It were to be injurious to yourself
To make another choice.
_Queen_. Yet, Lysimantes, set by him I love,
Is more obscured, than stars too near the sun:
He has a brightness of his own,
Not borrowed of his father's, but born with him.
_Phil_. Pardon me if I say, whoe'er he be,
He has practis'd some ill arts upon you, madam;
For he, whom you describe, I see, is born
But from the lees o' the people.
_Queen_. You offend me, Philocles.
Whence had you leave to use those insolent terms,
Of him I please to love? One, I must tell you,
(Since foolishly I have gone thus far)
Whom I esteem your equal,
And far superior to prince Lysimantes;
One, who deserves to wear a crown--
_Phil_. Whirlwinds bear me hence, before I live
To that detested day!--That frown assures me
I have offended, by my over-freedom;
But yet, methinks, a heart so plain and honest,
And zealous of your glory, might hope your pardon for it.
_Queen_. I give it you; but,
When you know him better,
You'll alter your opinion; he's no ill friend of yours.
_Phil_. I well perceive,
He has supplanted me in your esteem;
But that's the least of ills this fatal wretch
Has practised--Think, for heaven's sake, madam, think,
If you have drunk no philtre.
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