_Hip._ 'Tis thy master-piece
Which I will so reward, that thou shalt fix here,
And with the hazard of thy life, no more
Make tryal of thy powerful Art; which known
Our Laws call death: off with this Magical Robe,
And be thy self.
_Enter_ Governour, Clodio, _and_ Charino.
_Sulp._ Stand close, you shall hear more.
_Man._ You must have patience; all rage is vain now,
And piety forbids, that we should question
What is decreed above, or ask a reason
Why heaven determines this or that way of us.
_Clod._ Heaven has no hand in't; 'tis a work of hell.
Her life hath been so innocent, all her actions
So free from the suspicion of crime,
As rather she deserves a Saints place here,
Than to endure, what now her sweetness suffers.
_Char._ Not for her fault, but mine Sir, _Zenocia_ suffers:
The sin I made, when I sought to rase down
_Arnoldo's_ love, built on a Rock of truth,
Now to the height is punish'd. I profess,
Had he no birth, nor parts, the present sorrow
He now expresses for her, does deserve her
Above all Kings, though such had been his rivals.
_Clod._ All ancient stories, of the love of Husbands
To vertuous Wives, be now no more remembred.
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