_Aub._ Oh! womans goodness never to be equall'd, May the most sinfull creatures of thy sex But kneeling at thy monument, rise saints. _Soph._ Sit down my worthy sons; my Lords, your places. I, now me thinks the table's nobly furnisht; Now the meat nourishes; the wine gives spirit; And all the room stuck with a general pleasure, Shews like the peacefull boughs of happiness. _Aub._ Long may it last, and from a heart fill'd with it Full as my cup; I give it round, my Lords. _Bald._ And may that stubborn heart be drunk with sorrow Refuses it; men dying now should take it, And by the vertue of this ceremony Shake off their miseries, and sleep in peace. _Rol._ You are sad, my noble Brother. _Ot._ No, indeed, Sir. _Soph._ No sadness my son this day. _Rol._ Pray you eat, Something is here you have lov'd; taste of this dish, It will prepare your stomach. _Ot._ Thank you brother: I am not now dispos'd to eat. _Rol._ Or that, You put us out of heart man, come, these bak't meats Were ever your best dyet. _Ot._ None, I thank you. _Soph._ Are you well, noble child? _Ot._ Yes, gracious Mother. _Rol._ Give him a cup of wine, then, pledge the health, Drink it to me, I'le give it to my Mother. _Soph._ Do, my best child. _Ot._ I must not, my best Mother, Indeed I dare not: for of late, my body Has been much weakned by excess of dyet; The promise of a feaver hanging on me, And even now ready, if not by abstinence-- _Rol._ And will you keep it in this general freedom; A little health preferr'd before our friendship? _Ot._ I pray you excuse me, Sir. _Rol._ Excuse your self Sir, Come 'tis your fear, and not your favour Brother, And you have done me a most worthy kindness My Royal Mother, and you noble Lords; Here, for it now concerns me to speak boldly; What faith can be expected from his vows, From his dissembling smiles, what fruit of friendship From all his dull embraces, what blest issue, When he shall brand me here for base suspicion? He takes me for a poysoner. _Sop._ Gods defend it son. _Rol._ For a foul knave, a villain, and so fears me. _Ot._ I could say something too. _Sop._ You must not so Sir, Without your great forgetfulness of vertue; This is your Brother, and your honour'd Brother. _Rol._ If he please so. _Sop._ One noble Father, with as noble thoughts, Begot your minds and bodies: one care rockt you, And one truth to you both was ever sacred; Now fye my _Otto_, whither flyes your goodness? Because the right hand has the power of cutting, Shall the left presently cry out 'tis maimed? They are one my child, one power, and one performance, And joyn'd together thus, one love, one body.