SCENE VI.
Enter Maximus and Eudoxa.
Max.
Come my best lov'd Eudoxa: let the sould••••r
Want neither Wine nor any thing he calls for,
And when the Senate's ready, give us notice:
In the mean time leave us.
Oh my dear sweet.
Eud.
Is't possible your Grace
Should undertake such dangers for my beauty,
If it were excellent?
Max.
'Tis all
The world has left to brag of.
Eud.
Can a face
Long since bequeath'd to wrinkles with my sorrows,
Long since ras'd out o'th' book of youth and pleasure,
Have power to make the strongest man o'th' Empire,
Nay the most staid, and knowing what is Woman;
The greatest aim of perfectness men liv'd by,
The most true constant lover of his wedlock,
Such a still blowing beauty, earth was proud of,
Lose such a noble wife, and wilfully;
Himself prepare the way, nay make the rape.
Did ye not tell me so?
Max.
'Tis true Eudoxa.
Eud.
Lay desolate his dearest piece of friendship,
Break his strong helm he stear'd by, sink that vertue,
That valour, that even all the gods can give us,
Without whom he was nothing, with whom worthiest,
Nay more, arrive at Caesar, and kill him too,
And for my sake? either ye love too dearly,
Or deeply ye dissemble, Sir?
Max.
I do so;
And till I am more strengthen'd, so I must do;
Yet would my joy, and Wine had fashion'd out
Some safer lye: Can these things be, Eudoxa,
And I dissemble? Can there be but goodness
And only thine dear Lady, any end,
Any imagination but a lost one,
Why I should run this hazard? O thou vertue!
Were it to do again, and Valentinian
Once more to hold thee, sinful Valentinian,
In whom thou wert set, as Pearls are in salt Oysters,
As Roses are in rank weeds, I would find,
Yet to thy sacred self a dearer danger,
The Gods know how I honour thee.
Eud.
What love, Sir,
Can I return for this, but my obedience?
My life, if so you please, and 'tis too little.
Max.
'Tis too much to redeem the world.
Eud.
From this hour,
The sorrows for my dead Lord, fare ye well,
My living Lord has dried ye; and in token,
As Emperour this day I honour ye,
And the great caster new of all my wishes,
The wreath of living Lawrel, that must compass
That sacred head, Eudoxa makes for Caesar:
I am methinks too much in love with fortune;
But with you ever Royal Sir my maker,
The once more Summer of me, meer in love,
Is poor expression of my doting.
Max.
Sweetest.