e him to her Bed-- Oh, let me kill him.
[Offers to go to him.

_Amb._ That he should love _Cleonte_ I'll allow,
And her returns too, whilst they are innocent.

_Mar._ But, Sir, he does not love her as a Sister.

_Amb._ If that be all his Crime, I still forgive him.

_Silv._ Yes, Sir, 'tis true, I do adore my Sister,
But am so far from that foul thing he nam'd,
That could I think I had a secret Thought
That tended that way, I would search it-- thus--
[Goes to stab himself.

_Cleo._ What mean you by this Desperation?

_Silv._ Oh, take away this Woman from my sight.
[Pointing to _Cleonte_.
For she will finish what this has ill begun.
[Holds his Dagger up.

_Franc._ Thus low, Sir, for you Mercy I must kneel;
[Kneels.
Which yet I must despair of, when you know
How very very wicked I have been. [Weeps.
_Cleonte_, Sir, is chaste as Angels are.

_Silv._ My Sister innocent! how soon I do believe thee!

_Franc._ Yes, Sir, nor knows of that vile Message which I brought you.

_Silv._ What Devil set thee on to tempt me then?

_Franc._ The worst of Devils, hopeless, raging Love;
And you, my Lord, were the unhappy Object.

_Mar._ Oh sinful Woman, what was thy Design?

_Cleo._ What means all this? [Aside.

_Franc._ At least to have enjoy'd him once; which done,
Thinking that it had been the fair _Cleonte_,
It would have made him hate her.

_Silv._ Should all thy other Sins be unrepented,
The Piety of this Confession saves thee.
Pardon, _Cleonte_, my rude Thoughts of thee,
[Kneels, she takes him up.
I had design'd to have kill'd thee--
Had not this Knowledge of thy Innocence
Arriv'd before I'd seen thee next.
And, Sir, your Pardon too I humbly beg, [To _Ambrosio_.
With license to depart; I cannot live
Where I must only see my beauteous Sister;
That Torment is too great to be supported,
That still must last, and never hope a Cure.

_Amb._ Since you are so resolv'd, I will unfold
A Secret to you, that perhaps may please you.

_Silv._ Low at your Feet I do implore it, Sir. [Kneels.

_Amb._ Your Quality forbids this Ceremony.
[Takes him up.

_Silv._ How, Sir!

_Amb._ Your Father was the mighty Favourite, the Count _d'Olivarez_;
your Mother, _Spain's_ celebrated Beauty, _Donna Margarita Spiniola_,
by whom your Father had two natural Sons, _Don Lovis de Harro_, and your
self _Don Roderigo_. The Story of his Disgrace, you know