_Arc._ Poor miserable men, you have rob'd your selves both; This Gown, and this unvalu'd Treasure, your brave Father, Found me a Child at School with, in his progress. Where such a love he took to some few answers, Unhappy Boyish toys hit in my head then, That suddenly I made him, thus as I was, (For here was all the Wealth I brought his Highness) He carried me to Court, there bred me up, Bestow'd his favours on me, taught me the Arms first, With those an honest mind; I serv'd him truly, And where he gave me trust, I think I fail'd not; Let the World speak: I humbly thank your Highness, You have done more, and nobler, eas'd mine age, Sir; And to this care a fair _Quietus_ given, Now to my Book again. _Du._ You have your wish, Sir, Let some bring off the treasure. _Bor._ Some is his, Sir. _Arc._ None, none, a poor unworthy reaper, The Harvest is his Graces. _Du._ Thank you, _Archas_. _Arc._ But will not you repent, Lord? when this is gone Where will your Lordship?-- _Bor._ Pray take you no care, Sir. _Arc._ Does your Grace like my House? _Du._ Wondrous well, _Archas_, You have made me richly welcome. _Arc._ I did my best, Sir. Is there any thing else may please your Grace? _Du._ Your Daughters I had forgot, send them to Court. _Arc._ How's that, Sir? _Du._ I said your Daughters; see it done: I'll have 'em Attend my Sister, _Archas_. _Arc._ Thank your Highness. _Du._ And suddenly. [_Exit._ _Arc._ Through all the ways I dare, I'll serve your temper, though you try me far. [_Exit._ _Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Theodore, Putskey, _Ancient and Servant_. _The._ I wonder we hear no news. _Puts._ Here's your fathers servant, He comes in haste too, now we shall know all, Sir. _The._ How now? _Ser._ I am glad I have met you, Sir; your father Intreats you presently make haste unto him. _The._ What news? _Ser._ None of the best, Sir, I am asham'd to tell it, Pray ask no more. _The._ Did not I tell ye, Gentlemen? Did not I prophesie? he's undone then. _Ser._ Not so, Sir, but as near it-- _Puts._ There's no help now; The Army's scatter'd all, through discontent, Not to be rallied up in haste to help this. _Anc._ Plague of the Devil; have ye watch'd your seasons? We shall watch you ere long. _The._ Farewel, there's no cure, We must endure all now: I know what I'll do. [_Exeunt_ Theodore _and Servant_. _Puts._ Nay, there's no striving, they have a hand upon us, A heavy and a hard one. _Anc._ Now I have it, We have yet some Gentlemen, some Boys of mettle, (What, are we bob'd thus still, colted, and carted?) And one mad trick we'll have to shame these Vipers; Shall I bless 'em? _Puts._ Farewel; I have thought my way too. [_Exit._