Duke. O that I could believe you!  But your words
Are not enough disorder’d for true love;
They are not plain, and hearty, as are mine;
But full of art, and close insinuation: 
You promise all, but give me not one proof
Of love before; not the least earnest of it.

Luc. And what is then this midnight conversation? 
These silent hours divided from my sleep? 
Nay, more, stolen from my prayers with sacrilege,
And here transferred to you?  This guilty hand,
Which should be used in dropping holy beads,
But now bequeathed to yours?  This heaving heart,
Which only should be throbbing for my sins,
But which now beats uneven time for you? 
These are my arts! and these are my designs!

Duke. I love you more, Lucretia, than my soul;
Nay, than yours too; for I would venture both,
That I might now enjoy you; and if what
You ask me, did not make me fear to lose you,
Though it were even my life, you should not be denied it.

Luc. Then I will ask no more. 
Keep still my letter, to upbraid me with it: 
To say, when I am sullied with your lust,
And fit to be forsaken,—­Go, Lucretia,
To your first love; for this, for this, I leave you.

Duke. Oh, madam, never think that day can come!

Luc. It must, it will; I read it in your looks; You will betray me, when I’m once engaged.

Duke. If not my faith, your beauty will secure you.

Luc. My beauty is a flower upon the stalk,
Goodly to see; but, gathered for the scent,
And once with eagerness pressed to your nostrils,
The sweets drawn out, ’tis thrown with scorn away. 
But I am glad I find you out so soon;
I simply loved, and meant (with shame I own it)
To trust my virgin honour in your hands. 
I asked not wealth for hire; and, but by chance,
(I wonder that I thought on’t) begged one trial,
And, but for form, to have pretence to yield,
And that you have denied me.  Farewell!  I could
Have loved you, and yet, perhaps, I—­

Duke. O speak, speak out, and do not drown that word; It seemed as if it would have been a kind one; And yours are much too precious to be lost.

Luc. Perhaps—­I cannot yet leave loving you. 
There ’twas.  But I recalled it in my mind,
And made it false before I gave it air. 
Once more, farewell—­I wo’not,—­
Now I can say I wo’not, wo’not love you. [Going.

Duke. You shall; and this shall be the seal of my affection.
                                                  [Gives the letter.
There take it, my Lucretia:  I give it with more joy,
Than I with grief received it.

Luc. Good night; I’ll thank you for’t some other time.

Duke. You’ll not abuse my love?

Luc. No; but secure my honour.