A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 05

English drama
Why so, this fits our former policy,
    And thus experience bids the wise to deal.
    I lay the plot: he prosecutes the point;
    I set the trap: he breaks the worthless twigs,
    And sees not that wherewith the bird was lim'd.[166]
    Thus hopeful men, that mean to hold their own,
    Must look like fowlers to their dearest friends;
    He runs to kill, whom I have holp[167] to catch,
    And no man knows it was my reaching fetch.
    'Tis hard to trust unto a multitude,
    Or any one, in mine opinion,
    When men themselves their secrets will reveal.

                 _Enter a_ MESSENGER, _with a letter_.

    Boy----

                                 PAGE.

    My lord?

                                LORENZO.

    What's he?

                               MESSENGER.

    I have a letter to your lordship.

                                LORENZO.

    From whence?

                               MESSENGER.

    From Pedringano, that's imprison'd.

                                LORENZO.

    So he is in prison[168] then?

                               MESSENGER.

    Ay, my good lord.

                                LORENZO.

    What would he with us?
    He writes us here, _To stand, good lord, and help him in distress._
    Tell him, I have his letters, know his mind;
    And what we may, let him assure him of.
    Fellow, begone; my boy shall follow thee.

                                                      [_Exit_ MESSENGER.

    This works like wax; yet once more try thy wits.
    Boy, go, convey this purse to Pedringano;
    Thou know'st the prison, closely give it him,
    And be advis'd that none be there about:
    Bid him be merry still, but secret;
    And though the marshal[169]-sessions be to-day,
    Bid him not doubt of his delivery;
    Tell him, his pardon is already sign'd:
    And thereon bid him boldly be resolv'd;
    For were he ready to be turned off
    (As 'tis my will the uttermost be try'd),
    Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still:
    Show him this box, tell him his pardon's in't;
    But open't not, and if thou lov'st thy life:
    But let him wisely keep his hopes unknown,
    He shall not want, while Don Lorenzo lives.
    Away!

                                 PAGE.

    I go, my lord, I run.

                                LORENZO.

    But, sirrah, see that this be cleanly done.
                                                           [_Exit_ PAGE.
    Now stands our fortune on a tickle point,
    And now or never ends Lorenzo's doubts;
    One only thing is uneffected yet,
    And that's to see the executioner;
    But to what end? I[170] list not trust the air
    With utterance of our pretence therein;
    For fear the privy whispering of the wind
    Convey our words amongst unfriendly ears,
    That lie too open to advantages.

              _E quel che voglio io, nessun le sa,_
              _Intendo io quel mi bastara._                     [_Exit._
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 05

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