I that already have my fame far spread
For being constant to my lover dead.

_The_. Think yet, dear _Clorin_, of your love, how true,
If you had dyed, he would have been to you.

_Clor_. Yet all I'le lose for thee.

_The_. Think but how blest
A constant woman is above the rest.

_Clor_. And offer up my self, here on this ground,
To be dispos'd by thee.

_The_. Why dost thou wound
His heart with malice, against woman more,
That hated all the Sex, but thee before?
How much more pleasant had it been to me
To dye, than to behold this change in thee?
Yet, yet, return, let not the woman sway.

_Clor_. Insult not on her now, nor use delay,
Who for thy sake hath ventur'd all her fame.

_The_. Thou hast not ventur'd, but bought certain shame,
Your Sexes curse, foul falshood must and shall,
I see, once in your lives, light on you all.
I hate thee now: yet turn.

_Clor_. Be just to me: