he pure Stars are from the muddy meteors,
Cry when you know your folly: howl and curse then,
Beat that unmanly breast, that holds a false heart
When ye shall come to know, whom ye have flung from ye.

_Dem_. Pray ye stay a little.

_Cel_. Not your hopes can alter me.
Then let a thousand black thoughts muster in ye,
And with those enter in a thousand doatings;
Those eyes be never shut, but drop to nothing:
My innocence for ever haunt and fright ye:
Those arms together grow in folds; that tongue,
That bold bad tongue that barks out these disgraces.
When you shall come to know how nobly vertuous
I have preserv'd my life, rot, rot within ye.

_Dem_. What shall I doe?

_Cel_. Live a lost man for ever.
Go ask your Fathers conscience what I suffered,
And through what seas of hazards I sayl'd through:
Mine honour still advanced in spight of tempests,
Then take your leave of love; and confess freely,
You were never worthy of this heart that serv'd ye,
And so farewel ungratefull-- [_Exit._

_Dem_. Is she gone?

_Leo_. I'le follow her, and will find out this matter.-- [_Exit._

_Enter_ Antigonus, _and_ Lords.

_Ant_. Are ye pleas'd now? have you got your heart again?
Have I restor'd ye that?

_Dem_. Sir even for Heaven sake,
And sacred truth sake, tell me how ye found her.

_Ant_. I will, and in few words. Before I tri'd her,
'Tis true, I thought her most unfit your fellowship,
And fear'd her too: which fear begot that story
I told ye first: but since, like gold I toucht her.

_Dem_. And how dear Sir?

_Ant_. Heavens holy light's not purer:
The constancy and goodness of all women
That ever liv'd, to win the names of worthy,
This noble Maid has doubled in her: honour,
All promises of wealth, all art to win her,
And by all tongues imploy'd, wrought as much on her
As one may doe upon the Sun at noon day
By lighting Candles up: her shape is heavenly,
And to that heavenly shape her thoughts are angels.

_Dem_. Why did you tell me Sir?

_Ant_. 'Tis true, I err'd in't:
But since I made a full proof of her vertue,
I find a King too poor a servant for her.
Love her, and honour her; in all observe her.
She must be something more than time yet tells her:
And certain I believe him b[l]est, enjoyes her:
I would not lose the hope of such a Daughter,
To adde another Empire to my honour.-- [_Exit._

_Dem_. O wretched state! to what end shall I turn me?
And where begins my penance? now, what service