_Aub._ I do beseech your grace, take to your thoughts More certain counsellors than doubts or fears, They strangle nature, and disperse themselves (If once believ'd) into such foggs and errours That the bright truth her self can never sever: Your Brother is a royal Gentleman Full of himself, honour, and honesty, And take heed Sir, how nature bent to goodness, (So streight a Cedar to himself) uprightness Be wrested from his true use, prove not dangerous. _Rol._ Nay my good Brother knows I am too patient. _Lat._ Why should your grace think him a poysoner? Has he no more respect to piety? And but he has by oath ty'd up his fury Who durst but think that thought? _Aub._ Away thou firebrand. _Lat._ If men of his sort, of his power, and place The eldest son in honour to this Dukedom. _Bald._ For shame contain thy tongue, thy poysonous to[n]gue That with her burning venome will infect all, And once more blow a wilde fire through the Dukedom. _Gis._ _Latorch_, if thou be'st honest, or a man, Contain thy self. _Aub._ Go to, no more, by Heaven You'le find y'have plai'd the fool else, not a word more. _Sop._ Prethee sweet son. _Rol._ Let him alone sweet Mother, and my Lords To make you understand how much I honour This sacred peace, and next my innocence, And to avoid all further difference Discourse may draw on to a way of danger I quit my place, and take my leave for this night, Wishing a general joy may dwell among you. _Aub._ Shall we wait on your grace? _Rol._ I dare not break you, _Latorch_. [_Ex._ Rol. _and_ Lat. _Ot._ Oh Mother that your tenderness had eyes, Discerning eyes, what would this man appear then? The tale of _Synon_ when he took upon him To ruine _Troy_; with what a cloud of cunning He hid his heart, nothing appearing outwards, But came like innocence, and dropping pity, Sighs that would sink a Navie, and had tales Able to take the ears of Saints, belief too, And what did all these? blew the fire to _Ilium_. His crafty art (but more refin'd by study) My Brother has put on: oh I could tell you But for the reverence I bear to nature, Things that would make your honest blood run backward. _Sop._ You dare tell me? _Ot._ Yes, in your private closet Where I will presently attend you; rise I am a little troubled, but 'twill off. _Sop._ Is this the joy I look'd for? _Ot._ All will mend, Be not disturb'd dear Mother, I'le not fail you. [_Ex._ Sop. _and_ Otto. _Bald._ I do not like this. _Aub._ That is still in our powers, But how to make it so that we may like it. _Bald._ Beyond us ever; _Latorch_ me thought was busie, That fellow, if not lookt to narrowly, will do a suddain mischief.