Assist me all that's ill in Woman-kind,
And furnish me with Sighs, and feigned Tears,
That may express a Grief for this Discovery.--
My Son, be like thy Mother, hot and bold;
And like the noble Ravisher of Rome,
Court her with Daggers, when thy Tongue grows faint,
Till thou hast made a Conquest o'er her Virtue.
_Enter_ Alonzo, Elvira.
--Oh, _Alonzo_, I have strange News to tell thee!

_Alon_. It must be strange indeed, that makes my Queen
Dress her fair Eyes in Sorrow.

_Qu_. It is a Dress that thou wilt be in love with,
When thou shalt hear my Story.--
You had a Sister once.

_Alon_. Had!

_Qu_. Yes, had,--whilst she was like thy self, all Virtue;
Till her bewitching Eyes kindled such Flames,
As will undo us all.

_Alon_. My Sister, Madam! sure it cannot be:--
What Eyes? what Flames?--inform me strait.

_Qu. Alonzo_, thou art honest, just and brave:
And should I tell thee more,--
(Knowing thy Loyalty's above all Nature)
It would oblige thee to commit an Outrage,