MAR. Let your request fit virgin-modesty, And you obey your vow, I am content To give your thoughts contented happiness.
PHIL. 'Tis but a kiss I ask, a minute's joy.
MAR. Now Cupid help thee; is thy grief for this? Keep thy strong vow, and freely take a kiss. [_He kisses her._
PHIL. I have obtain'd my heaven, and in this touch I feel the breath of all deliciousness: Then freely give the sentence of my work, Muster up all the engines of your wit, Teach Juno rules beyond maliciousness; Whate'er it be, I'll die but I'll perform it.
MAR. Thou shalt not kill thyself, nor fight with monsters, Nor bring the great Turk's beard[172] to show thy zeal: Thy life thou shalt not hazard for my love, Nor will I tie thee to an endless task: But even with ease and gentle-tangled knots, Thou shalt entwine thy clue of miseries.
PHIL. Let it have passage, madam: give me my doom.
MAR. Then, Philocles, knit silence to my words, And mark thy doom; for thus my stricter will Loads grief upon thy vainer levity. Hence, for the space and compass of one year, Thou shalt abjure the liberty of speech; Thou shalt not speak for fully twelvemonth's space, For friend nor foe, for danger nor for death; But live, like air, with silent emptiness. Break thou this vow, I'll hold thee for a villain: And all the world shall know thy perjury.
PHIL. Be heaven and earth a witness of my vow And mine eternal silence!--I am dumb.
MAR. Why so, now shall I not be troubled with vain chat Or idle prate of idle wantonness: For love I cannot, therefore 'tis in vain; Would all my suitors' tongues I thus could rein! Then should I live free from feign'd sighs and groans, With, _O, take pity, 'tis your servant moans_, And such harsh stuff, that frets me to the heart; And sonnets made of Cupid's burning dart, Of Venus' lip, and Juno's majesty; Then were I freed from fools and foolery. In May the cuckoo sings: then she'll come hither. Her voice and yours will rarely tune together.
FLO. Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you. [_Speaks louder and louder._ Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you. Prince Philocles, the king would speak with you.
[PHILOCLES _strikes_ FLORIO, _and fells him_.
FLO. The pox rot off your fingers for this blow! It is coronation-day thorough all my skull, There's such a fatal ringing in my brain: H' has won the set, has laid five fingers on: But 'twas a knavish part of him to play so. Hear me, ye gods: for this my open wrong, Make short his fingers, as you have his tongue.
