By all that's dear unto you, by your vertues,
And by your innocence, that needs no forgiveness,
Take pity on me.
_Guio._ Are you a _Castillian_?
_Rut._ No Madam, _Italy_ claims my birth.
_Guio._ I ask not
With purpose to betray you, if you were
Ten thousand times a Spaniard, the nation
We Portugals most hate, I yet would save you
If it lay in my power: lift up these hangings;
Behind my Beds head there's a hollow place,
Into which enter; so, but from this stir not
If the Officers come, as you expect they will doe,
I know they owe such reverence to my lodgings,
That they will easily give credit to me
And search no further.
_Rut._ The blest Saints pay for me
The infinite debt I owe you.
_Guio._ How he quakes!
Thus far I feel his heart beat, be of comfort,
Once more I give my promise for your safety,
All men are subject to such accidents,
Especially the valiant; and who knows not,
But that the charity I afford this stranger
My only Son else where may stand in need of?
_Enter Officers, and Servants, with the body of Duarte--Page._
_1 Ser._ Now Madam, if your wisedom ever could
Raise up defences against floods of sorrow
That haste to overwhelm you, make true use of
Your great discretion.
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