_Du._ Come bring some wine: here's to my Sister, Gentlemen; A health, and mirth to all. _Ar._ Pray fill it full, Sir. 'Tis a high health to vertue: here Lord _Burris_, A maiden health: you are most fit to pledge it, You have a maiden soul and much I honour it. Passion o' me, ye are sad man. _Duke._ How now, _Burris_? Go to, no more of this. _Ar._ Take the rowse freely, 'Twill warm your bloud, and make ye fit for jollity. Your Graces pardon: when we get a cup, Sir, We old men prate a pace. _Du._ Mirth makes a Banquet; As you love me no more. _Bur._ I thank your Grace. Give me it; Lord _Boroskie_. _Boros._ I have ill brains, Sir. _Bur._ Damnable ill, I know it. _Boros._ But I'le pledge, Sir, This vertuous health. _Bur._ The more unfit for thy mouth. _Enter two Servants with Cloaks._ _Du._ Come, bring out Robes, and let my guests look nobly, Fit for my love and presence: begin downward. Off with your Cloaks, take new. _Ar._ Your grace deals truly, Like a munificent Prince, with your poor subjects, Who would not fight for you? what cold dull coward Durst seek to save his life when you would ask it? Begin a new health in your new adornments, The Dukes, the Royal Dukes: ha! what have I got Sir? ha! the Robe of death? _Du._ You have deserv'd it. _Ar._ The Livery of the Grave? do you start all from me? Do I smell of earth already? Sir, look on me, And like a man; is this your entertainment? Do you bid your worthiest guests to bloudy Banquets? _Enter a Guard._ A Guard upon me too? this is too foul play Boy to thy good, thine honour: thou wretched Ruler, Thou Son of fools and flatterers, Heir of hypocrites, Am I serv'd in a Hearse that sav'd ye all? Are ye men or Devils? Do ye gape upon me, Wider, and swallow all my services? Entomb them first, my faith next, then my integrity, And let these struggle with your mangy minds, Your sear'd, and seal'd up Consciences, till they burst. _Boros._ These words are death. _Ar._ No those deeds that want rewards, Sirrah, Those Battels I have fought, those horrid dangers, Leaner than death, and wilder than destruction, I have march'd upon, these honour'd wounds, times story, The bloud I have lost, the youth, the sorrows suffer'd, These are my death, these that can ne're be recompenced, These that ye sit a brooding on like Toads, Sucking from my deserts the sweets and favours, And render me no pay again but poysons. _Bor._ The proud vain Souldier thou hast set--