Dem.  She was vertuous, And therefore not unfit my youth to love her:  She was as fair—­

Ant.  Her beauty I’le proclaim too, To be as rich as ever raign’d in Woman; But how she made that good, the Devil knows.

Dem.  She was—­O Heaven!

Ant.  The Hell to all thy glories, Swallow’d thy youth, made shipwrack of thine honour:  She was a Devil.

Dem.  Ye are my father, Sir.

Ant.  And since ye take a pride to shew your follies, I’le muster ’em, and all the world shall view ’em.

Leo.  What heat is this? the Kings eyes speak his anger.

Ant.  Thou hast abus’d thy youth, drawn to thy fellowship Instead of Arts and Arms, a Womans kisses, The subtilties, and soft heats of a Harlot.

Dem.  Good Sir, mistake her not.

Ant.  A Witch, a Sorceress: 
I tell thee but the truth; and hear Demetrius,
Which has so dealt upon thy bloud with charms,
Devilish and dark; so lockt up all thy vertues;
So pluckt thee back from what thou sprungst from, glorious.

Dem.  O Heaven, that any tongue but his durst say this! 
That any heart durst harbour it!  Dread Father,
If for the innocent the gods allow us
To bend our knees—­

Ant.  Away, thou art bewitch’d still; Though she be dead, her power still lives upon thee.

Dem.  Dead?  O sacred Sir:  dead did you say?

Ant.  She is dead, fool.

Dem.  It is not possible:  be not so angry,
Say she is faln under your sad displeasure,
Or any thing but dead, say she is banished,
Invent a crime, and I’le believe it, Sir.

Ant.  Dead by the Law:  we found her Hell, and her, I mean her Charms and Spells, for which she perish’d; And she confest she drew thee to thy ruine, And purpos’d it, purpos’d my Empires overthrow.

Dem.  But is she dead? was there no pity Sir?  If her youth err’d, was there no mercy shown her?  Did ye look on her face, when ye condemn’d her?

Ant.  I look’d into her heart, and there she was hideous.

Dem.  Can she be dead? can vertue fall untimely?

Ant.  She is dead, deservingly she died.

Dem.  I have done then. 
O matchless sweetness, whither art thou vanished? 
O thou fair soul of all thy Sex, what Paradise
Hast thou inrich’d and blest?  I am your son, Sir,
And to all you shall command stand most obedient,
Only a little time I must intreat you
To study to forget her; ’twill not be long, Sir,
Nor I long after it:  art thou dead Celia,
Dead my poor wench? my joy, pluckt green with violence: 
O fair sweet flower, farewel; Come, thou destroyer
Sorrow, thou melter of the soul, dwell with me;
Dwell with me solitary thoughts, tears, cryings,
Nothing that loves the day, love me, or seek me,
Nothing that loves his own life haunt about me: 
And Love, I charge thee, never charm mine eyes more,
Nor ne’re betray a beauty to my curses: 
For I shall curse all now, hate all, forswear all,
And all the brood of fruitful nature vex at,
For she is gone that was all, and I nothing—­ [Ex. & Gent.