_Valen_. Oft have I seene a Nobleman arraign'd By mighty Lords, the pillars of the land, Some of which number, his inclined friends, Have wept, yet past the verdict of his death: So fares it with the Prince. Were I his jaylor, And so affected unto _Fredericks_ life, The fearfull'st tyrant nor the cruell'st plagues That ever lighted on tormented soules, Should make me yeeld my prisoner to their hands. _Mon_. Madam, he knowes his duty, and performes it. _Valen_. Setting aside all dutie, I would die Ere like a woman weepe a tragedie; Tis basenesse, cowardize. Dutie! O slave, Had I a friend, I'de dye in my friends grave. But it sorts well for us; Hindes will be Hindes, And the Ambitious tread upon such mindes. Waite, whilest I call you, in the jaylors house. _Mon_. We will. [_Exeunt Van. and Mon_. _Valen_. My Lord, Prince _Fredericke_. _Enter Fred_. _Fred_. Wofull _Fredericke_ Were a beseeming Epitaph for me, The other tastes of too much soveraigntie. What? is it you! the glory of the stewes! _Valen_. Thy mother, _Fredericke_. _Fred_. I detest that name, My mother was a Dutches of true fame; And now I thinke upon her, when she died I was ordain'd to be indignified. She never did incense my Princely Father To the destruction of his loving sonne: Oh she was vertuous, trulie naturall, But this step-divell doth promise our fall. _Val_. Why doest thou raile on me? I am come To set thee free from all imprisonment. _Fred_. By what true supersedeas but by death? If it be so, come, strike me to the earth; Thou needest no other weapon but thine eye; Tis full of poyson, fixe it, and Ile die. _Val_. Uncharitable youth, I am no serpent venom'd, No basiliske to kill thee with my sight. _Fre_. Then thou speak'st death, I am sorry I mistooke; They both are fatall, theres but little choice; The first inthral'd my father, the last me, No deadlier swords ever us'd enemie; My lot's the best that I dye with the sound, But he lives dying in a death profound. I grow too bitter, being so neere my end; Speake quickly, boldly, what your thoughts intend. _Valen_. Behold this warrant, you can reade it well. _Fred_. But you the interpretation best can tell: Speake, beautious ruine, twere great injurie That he should reade the sentence that must dye. _Val_. Then know in briefe 'tis your fathers pleasure. _Fred_. His pleasure, what? _Val_. That you must loose your life. _Fred_. Fatall is his pleasure, 'tis to please his wife. I prethee, tell me, didst thou ever know A Father pleased his sonne to murder so? For what is't else but murder at the best? The guilt whereof will gnawe him in his brest, Torment him living, and when I am dead Curse thee by whose plot I was murdered? I have seene the like example, but, O base! Why doe I talke with one of your disgrace? Where are the officers? I have liv'd too long, When he that gave me life does me this wrong.