_Coo._ What a goodly swing I shall give the gallows? yet I think too, this may be done, and yet we may be rewarded, not with a rope, but with a royal master: and yet we may be hang'd too. _Yeo._ Say it were done; who is it done for? is it not for _Rollo_? And for his right? _Coo._ And yet we may be hang'd too. _But._ Or say he take it, say we be discover'd? [_Yeo._] Is not the same man bound still to protect us? Are we not his? _But._ Sure, he will never fail us. _Coo._ If he do, friends, we shall find that will hold us. And yet me thinks, this prologue to our purpose, These crowns should promise more: 'tis easily done, As easie as a man would roast an egge, If that be all; for look you, Gentlemen, Here stand my broths, my finger slips a little, Down drops a dose, I stir him with my ladle, And there's a dish for a Duke: _Olla Podrida_. Here stands a bak'd meat, he wants a little seasoning, A foolish mistake; my Spice-box, Gentlemen, And put in some of this, the matter's ended; Dredge you a dish of plovers, there's the Art on't. _Yeo._ Or as I fill my wine. _Coo._ 'Tis very true, Sir, Blessing it with your hand, thus quick and neatly first, 'tis past And done once, 'tis as easie For him to thank us for it, and reward us. _Pan._ But 'tis a damn'd sin. _Coo._ O, never fear that. The fire's my play-fellow, and now I am resolv'd, boyes. _But._ Why then, have with you. _Yeo._ The same for me. _Pan._ For me too. _Coo._ And now no more our worships, but our Lordships. _Pan._ Not this year, on my knowledge, I'le unlord you. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter Servant, and Sewer._ _Ser._ Perfume the room round, and prepare the table, Gentlemen officers, wait in your places. _Sew._ Make room there, Room for the Dukes meat. Gentlemen, be bare there, Clear all the entrance: Guard, put by those gapers, And Gentlemen-ushers, see the gallery clear, The Dukes are coming on. _Hoboys_, a banquet. _Enter_ Sophia, _between_ Rollo, _and_ Otto, Aubry, Latorch, Gis[b]ert, Baldwin, _Attendants_, Hamond, Matilda, Edith. _Ser._ 'Tis certainly inform'd. _Ot._ Reward the fellow, and look you mainly to it. _Ser._ My life for yours, Sir. _Soph._ Now am I straight, my Lords, and young again, My long since blasted hopes shoot out in blossomes, The fruits of everlasting love appearing; Oh! my blest boys, the honour of my years, Of all my cares, the bounteous fair rewarders. Oh! let me thus imbrace you, thus for ever Within a Mothers love lock up your friendships: And my sweet sons, once more with mutual twinings, As one chaste bed begot you, make one body: Blessings from heaven in thousand showrs fall on you.