Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.
LOR. Sister, what meanes this melanchollie walke?
BEL. That for a-while I wish no company.
LOR. But heere the prince is come to visite you.
BEL. That argues that he liues in libertie.
BAL. No madam, but in pleasing seruitude.
BEL. Your prison then, belike, is your conceit.
BAL. I, by conceite my freedome is enthralde.
BEL. Then with conceite enlarge your-selfe againe.
BAL. What if conceite haue laid my hart to gage?
BEL. Pay that you borrowed, and recouer it.
BAL. I die if it returne from whence it lyes.
BEL. A hartles man, and liue? A miracle!
BAL. I, lady, loue can work such miracles.
LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let goe these ambages,
And in plaine tearmes acquaint her with your loue.
BEL. What bootes complaint, when thers no remedy?
BAL. Yes, to your gracios selfe must I complaine,
In whose faire answere lyes my remedy,
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend,
On whose aspect mine eyes finde beauties bowre,
In whose translucent brest my hart is lodgde.
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