_Mat._ What will the Butcher do? I will not stir. _Rol._ Stir, and unforc't stir, or stir never more: Command her, you grave Beldam, that know better My deadly resolutions, since I drew them From the infective fountain of your own, Or if you have forgot, this fiery prompter Shall fix the fresh impression on your heart. _Sop._ Rise Daughter, serve his will in what we may, Lest what we may not he enforce the rather, Is this all you command us? _Rol._ This addition only admitted, that when I endeavour To quit me of this slaughter, you presume not To cross me with a syllable for your souls; Murmur, nor think against it, but weigh well, It will not help your ill, but help to more, And that my hand wrought thus far to my will, Will check at nothing till his circle fill. _Mat._ Fill it, so I consent not, but who sooths it Consents, and who consents to tyrannie, does it. _Rol._ False traytress die then with him. _Aub._ Are you mad, to offer at more blood, and make your self More horrid to your people? I'le proclaim, It is not as your instrument will publish. _Rol._ Do, and take that along with you--so nimble! Resign my sword, and dare not for thy soul To offer what thou insolently threatnest; One word, proclaiming cross to what _Latorch_ Hath in Commission, and intends to publish. _Aub._ Well, Sir, not for your threats, but for your good, Since more hurt to you would more hurt your Country, And that you must make Vertue of the need That now compels you, I'll consent as far As silence argues to your will proclaimed: And since no more Sons of your Princely Father Survive to rule but you, and that I wish You should rule like your Father, with the love And zeal of all your Subjects; this foul slaughter That now you have committed made ashamed With that fair blessing, that in place of plagues, Heaven trys our mending disposition with: Take here your sword, which now use like a Prince, And no more like a Tyrant. _Rol._ This sounds well, live and be gracious with us. _Gis._ _and Bal._ Oh Lord _Aubrey_. _Mat._ He flatter thus? _Sop._ He temporizes fitly. _Rol._ Wonder invades me; do you two think much, That he thus wisely, and with need consents To what I authour for your Countries good? You being my Tutor, you my Chancellour. _Gis._ Your Chancellour is not your Flatterer, Sir. _Bal._ Nor is it your Tutors part to shield such doctrine. _Rol._ Sir, first know you, In praise of your pure Oratory that rais'd you, That when the people, who I know by this Are rais'd out of their rests, and hastening hither To witness what is done here, are arrived With our _Latorch_, that you, _ex tempore_, Shall fashion an Oration to acquit And justifie this forced fact of mine; Or for the proud refusal lose your head.