us, thus easily win.

_Hub_. Oh, 'tis their long observed policy
To turne away these roaring boyes
When they intend to rock licentious thoughts
In a soft roome, where every long Cushion is
Embroydered with old Histories of peace,
And all the hangings of Warre thrust into the Wardrobe
Till they grow musty or moth-eaten.

_Belliz_. One of those rusty Monuments am I.

_Hub_. A little oyle of favour will secure thee agen,
And make thee shine as bright as in that day
We wonne the famous battaile 'gainst the Christians.

_Enter Bellina and kneeles weeping_.

_Belliz_. Never, _Hubert_, never.
What newes now, Girle? thy heart
So great it cannot tell me?

_Hub_. Sfoot, why shouldst thou be troubled, that art thus visited? Let
the King put me into any roome, the closer the better, and turne but
such a keeper to me, and if ever I strive to runne away, though the
doores be open, may the Virgins curse destroy me, and let me lamentably
and most unmanly dye of the Greene-sicknesse.

_Belliz_. My blessing bring thee patience, gentle Girle;
It is the best thy wronged Father can
Invoke for thee.--Tis my _Bellina, Hubert_:
Know her, honour'd Sir, and pittie her.

_Hub_. How sweetly she becomes the face of woe!
Shee teacheth misery to court her beauty
And to affliction lends a lovely looke.
Happy folkes would sell their blessings for her griefes
But to be sure to meete them thus.

_Bellina_. My honourd Father, your griev'd Daughter thus
Thrice every day to Heaven lifts her poore hand
And payes her vowes to the incensed Powers
For your release and happy patience,
And will grow old in vowes unto those Powers
Till they fall on me loaden with my wishes.

_Belliz_. Thou art the comfort of my Treasure, Girle:
Wee'le live together, if it please the King,
And tell sad Stories of thy wretched Mother;
Give equall sighes to one anothers griefe,
And by discourse of happinesse to come
Trample upon our present miseries.

_Hub_. There is a violent fire runnes round about me,
Which my sighes blow to a consuming flame.
To be her Martyr is a happinesse,
The sainted souls would change their merit for it.
Methinkes griefe dwells about her purest eyes,
As if it begg'd a pardon for those teares
Exhausted hence and onely due to love:
Her Vaile hangs like a Cloud over her face,
Through which her beauty, like a glimmering Starre,
Gives a transparent lustre to the night,
As if no sorrow could Ecclipse her light:
Her lips, as they disc