Queen.  Were he indeed the man, you had some reason;
But ’tis another, more without my power,
And yet a subject too.

Phil.  O, madam, say not so: 
It cannot be a subject, if not he;
It were to be injurious to yourself
To make another choice.

Queen.  Yet, Lysimantes, set by him I love,
Is more obscured, than stars too near the sun: 
He has a brightness of his own,
Not borrowed of his father’s, but born with him.

Phil.  Pardon me if I say, whoe’er he be,
He has practis’d some ill arts upon you, madam;
For he, whom you describe, I see, is born
But from the lees o’ the people.

Queen.  You offend me, Philocles. 
Whence had you leave to use those insolent terms,
Of him I please to love?  One, I must tell you,
(Since foolishly I have gone thus far)
Whom I esteem your equal,
And far superior to prince Lysimantes;
One, who deserves to wear a crown—­

Phil.  Whirlwinds bear me hence, before I live
To that detested day!—­That frown assures me
I have offended, by my over-freedom;
But yet, methinks, a heart so plain and honest,
And zealous of your glory, might hope your pardon for it.

Queen.  I give it you; but,
When you know him better,
You’ll alter your opinion; he’s no ill friend of yours.

Phil.  I well perceive,
He has supplanted me in your esteem;
But that’s the least of ills this fatal wretch
Has practised—­Think, for heaven’s sake, madam, think,
If you have drunk no philtre.

Queen.  Yes, he has given me a philtre; But I have drunk it only from his eyes.

Phil.  Hot irons thank ’em for’t! [Softly, or turning from her.

Queen.  What’s that you mutter? 
Hence from my sight!  I know not whether
I ever shall endure to see you more.

Phil.  But hear me, madam.

Queen.  I say, begone.—­See me no more this day.—­
I will not hear one word in your excuse: 
Now, sir, be rude again; and give laws to your queen. [Exit PHILOCLES bowing. 
Asteria, come hither. 
Was ever boldness like to this of Philocles? 
Help me to reproach him, for I resolve
Henceforth no more to love him.

Ast.  Truth is, I wondered at your patience, madam:  Did you not mark his words, his mein, his action, How full of haughtiness, how small respect?

Queen.  And he to use me thus, he whom I favoured, Nay more, he whom I loved?

Ast.  A man, methinks, of vulgar parts and presence!

Queen.  Or, allow him something handsome, valiant, Or so—­Yet this to me!—­

Ast.  The workmanship of inconsiderate favour,
The creature of rash love; one of those meteors
Which monarchs raise from earth,
And people, wondering how they came so high,
Fear, from their influence, plagues, and wars, and famine.