_Ed._ May then that pity, That comfort thou expect'st from Heaven, that mercy Be lockt up from thee, fly thee, howling find thee, Despair, Oh my sweet father, storms of terrours, Blood till thou burst again. _Rol._ Oh fair sweet anger. _Enter_ Latorch _and_ Hamond _with a Head_. _Lat._ I am too late, Sir, 'twas dispatch'd before, And his Head is here. _Rol._ And my Heart there; go bury him, Give him fair Rites of Funeral, decent Honours. _Ed._ Wilt thou not take me, Monster? highest Heaven Give him a punishment fit for his mischief. _Lat._ I fear thy Prayer is heard, and he rewarded: Lady, have patience, 'twas unhappy speed; Blame not the Duke, 'twas not his fault, but Fates; He sent, you know, to stay it, and commanded In care of you, the heavy object hence Soon as it came: have better thoughts of him. _Enter Citizens._ _1 Cit._ Where's this young Traytor? _Lat._ Noble Citizens, here, And here the wounds he gave your soveraign Lord. _1 Cit._ This Prince of force must be Belov'd of Heaven, whom Heaven hath thus preserv'd. _2 Cit._ And if he be belov'd of Heaven, you know, He must be just, and all his actions so. _Rol._ Concluded like an Oracle, Oh how great A grace of Heaven is a wise Citizen! For Heaven 'tis makes 'em wise, as't makes me just, As it preserves me, as I now survive By his strong hand to keep you all alive: Your Wives, your Children, Goods and Lands kept yours, That had been else preys to his tyrannous Power, That would have prey'd on me, in Bed assaulted me In sacred time of Peace; my Mother here, My Sister, this just Lord, and all had felt The certain Gulph of this Conspiracy, Of which my Tutor and my Chancellour, (Two of the gravest, and most counted honest In all my Dukedom) were the monstrous Heads; Oh trust no honest men for their sakes ever, My politick Citizens, but those that breathe The Names of Cut-throats, Usurers and Tyrants, Oh those believe in, for the foul-mouth'd World Can give no better terms to simple goodness: Even me it dares blaspheme, and thinks me tyrannous For saving my own life sought by my Brother; Yet those that sought his life before by poyson (Though mine own servants, hoping to please me) I'll lead to death for't, which your Eyes shall see. _1 Cit._ Why, what a Prince is here! _2 Cit._ How just! _3 Cit._ How gentle! _Rol._ Well, now my dearest Subjects, or much rather My Nerves, my Spirits, or my vital Blood; Turn to your needful rests, and setled peace, Fix'd in this root of steel, from whence it sprung In Heavens great help and Blessing: but ere sleep Bind in his sweet oblivion your dull senses, The Name and Vertue of Heavens King advance For yours, in chief, for my deliverance.