_Rol._ Thou shalt not live to be so happy. _Aub._ Nor your miseries begin in murther. [_He offers his sword at_ Otto, _the faction joyning_, [Aubrey _between severs the Brothers_. Duty, allegeance, and all respects of what you are, forsake me: Do you stare on? is this a Theater? Or shall these kill themselves, like to mad fencers, To make you sport? keep them asunder, or By Heaven I'le charge on all. _Grand._ Keep the peace, I am for you, my Lord, and if you'l have me, I'le act the Constables part. _Aub._ Live I to see this? Will you do that your enemies dare not wish, And cherish in your selves those furies, which Hell would cast out? Do, I am ready; kill me, And these, that would fall willing sacrifices To any power that would restore your reason, And make you men again, which now you are not. _Rol._ These are your bucklers boy. _Otto._ My hinderances; And were I not confirm'd, my justice in The taking of thy life, could not weigh down The wrong, in shedding the least drop of bloud Of these whose goodness only now protects thee, Thou should'st feel I in act would only prove my self What thou in words do'st labour to appear. _Rol._ Hear this, and talk again! I'le break through all, But I will reach thy heart. _Otto._ 'Tis better guarded. _Enter_ Sophia. _Soph._ Make way, or I will force it, who are those? My Sons? my shames; turn all your swords on me, And make this wretched body but one wound, So this unnatural quarrel find a grave In the unhappy womb that brought you forth: Dare you remember that you had a Mother, Or look on these gray hairs, made so with tears, For both your goods, and not with age; and yet Stand doubtful to obey her? from me you had Life, Nerves, and faculties, to use these weapons; And dare you raise them against her, to whom You owe the means of being what you are? _Otto._ All peace is meant to you. _Soph._ Why is this War then? As if your arms could be advanc'd, and I Not set upon the rack? your bloud is mine, Your dangers mine, your goodness I should share in; I must be branded with those impious marks You stamp on your own foreheads and on mine, If you go on thus: for my good name therefore, Though all respects of honour in your selves Be in your fury choakt, throw down your swords; Your duty should be swifter than my tongue; And joyn your hands while they be innocent; You have heat of bloud, and youth apt to Ambition, To plead an easie pardon for what's past: But all the ills beyond this hour committed, From Gods or men must hope for no excuse.