_Aub._ Hell look to him, For if there may be a Devil above all, yet That Rogue will make him; keep you up this night, And so will I, for much I fear a danger. _Bald._ I will, and in my watches use my prayers. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Sophia, Otto, Matillda, Edith. _Ot._ You wonder Madam, that for all the shews My Brother _Rollo_ makes of hearty love And free possession of the Dukedom 'twixt us; I notwithstanding should stand still suspicious, As if beneath those veils, he did convey Intents and practices of hate, and treason? _So[p]._ It breeds indeed my wonder. _Ot._ Which makes mine, Since it is so safe and broad a beaten way, Beneath the name of friendship to betray. _Sop._ Though in remote and further off affections, These falsehoods are so common, yet in him They cannot so force nature. _Ot._ The more near The bands of truth bind, the more oft they sever, Being better cloaks to cover falsehood over. _Sop._ It cannot be, that fruits the tree so blasting Can grow in nature; take heed gentle Son Lest some suborn'd suggester of these treasons, Believ'd in him by you, provok'd the rather His tender envies, to such foul attempts; Or that your too much love to rule alone Breed not in him this jealous passion; There is not any ill we might not bear Were not our good held at a price too dear. _Ot._ So apt is treachery to be excused, That innocence is still aloud abused, The fate of vertue even her friends perverts, To plead for vice oft times against their hearts, Heavens blessing is her curse, which she must bear That she may never love. _Sop._ Alas, my son, nor fate, nor heaven it self, Can or would wrest my whole care of your good To any least secureness in your ill: What I urge issues from my curious fear; Lest you should make your means to scape your snare. Doubt of sincereness is the only mean Not to incense it, but corrupt it clean. _Ot._ I rest as far from wrong of sincereness, As he flyes from the practice, trust me Madam, I know by their confessions, he suborn'd, What I should eat, drink, touch, or only have scented, This evening feast was poysoned, but I fear This open violence more, that treacherous oddes Which he in his insatiate thirst of rule Is like to execute. _Sop._ Believe it Son, If still his stomach be so foul to feed On such gross objects, and that thirst to rule The state alone be yet unquench'd in him, Poysons and such close treasons ask more time Than can suffice his fiery spirits hast: And were there in him such desire to hide So false a practice, there would likewise rest Conscience and fear in him of open force, And therefore close nor open you need fear.