press thus far
Into your secret thoughts: I have, at least,
A subject's share in you.

_Queen_. Thou hast a greater.
That of a friend:--But I am froward, say'st thou?

_Ast_. It ill becomes me, madam, to say that.

_Queen_. I know I am:--Pr'ythee, forgive me for it,--
I cannot help it;--but thou hast
Not long to suffer it.

_Ast_. Alas!

_Queen_. I feel my strength each day and hour consume,
Like lilies wasting in a lymbeck's heat.
Yet a few days,
And thou shalt see me lie, all damp and cold,
Shrouded within some hollow vault, among
My silent ancestors.

_Ast_. O dearest madam!
Speak not of death; or think not, if you die,
That I will stay behind.

_Queen_. Thy love has moved me;--I, for once, will have
The pleasure to be pitied. I'll unfold
A thing so strange, so horrid of myself--

_Ast_. Bless me, sweet heaven!--
So horrid, said you, madam?

_Queen_. That sun, who with one look surveys the globe,
Sees not a wretch like me!--And could the world
Take a right measure of my state within,
Mankind must either pity me, or scorn me.

_Ast_. Sure none could do the last.

_Queen_. Thou longest to know it,
And I to tell thee, but shame stops my mouth.
First, promise me thou wilt excuse my folly;
And, next, be secret.

_Ast_. Can you doubt it, madam?

_Queen_. Yet you might spare my labour:--
Can you not guess?

_Ast_. Madam, please you, I'll try.

_Queen_. Hold, Asteria!--
I would not have you guess; for should you find it,
I should imagine that some other might,
And then I were most wretched:--
Therefore, though you should know it, flatter me,
And say you could not guess it.

_Ast_. Madam, I need not flatter you, I cannot--and yet,
Might not ambition trouble your repose?

_Queen_. My Sicily, I thank the Gods, contents me.
But, since I must reveal it, know,--'tis love:
I, who pretended so to glory, am
Become the slave of love.

_Ast_. I thought your majesty had framed designs
To subvert all your laws; become a tyrant,
Or vex your neighbours, with injurious wars;
Is this all, madam?

_Queen_. Is not this enough?
Then, know, I love below myself; a subject;
Love one, who loves another, and who knows not
That I love him.

_Ast_. He must be told it, madam.

_Queen_. Not for the world, Asteria:
Whene'er he knows it, I shall die for shame.

_Ast_. What is it, then, that would content you?

_Queen_. Nothing, but that I had not lov'd.

_Ast_. May I not ask, without offence, who 'tis?

_