_Edith._ Madam, my self alone, I make no doubt Shall be afforded power enough from Heaven To end the murtherer: all I wish of you, Is but some richer Ornaments and Jewels Than I am able to provide my self, To help out the defects of my poor Beauty, That yet hath been enough, as now it is, To make his fancy mad with my desire. But you know, Madam, Women never can Be too fair to torment an amorous man; And this mans torments I would heighten still, Till at their highest he be fit to kill. _Mat._ Thou shalt have all my Jewels and my Mothers, And thou shalt paint too, that his bloods desire May make him perish in a painted fire; Hast thou been with him yet? _Edith._ Been with him? no; I set that hour back to haste more his longing; But I have promis'd to his instruments, The admittance of a visit at our house, Where yet I would receive him with all lustre My sorrow would give leave to, to remove Suspicion of my purpose. _Mat._ Thou shalt have All I can add, sweet wench, in Jewels, tyres, I'le be my self thy dresser; nor may I Serve my own love with a contracted Husband More sweetly, nor more amply than maist thou Thy forward will with his bewitch'd affections: Affect'st thou any personal aid of mine My noblest _Edith_? _Edith._ Nought but your kind prayers For full effect and speed of my affair. _Mat._ They are thine, my _Edith_, as for me, my own; For thou well know'st, if blood shed of the best Should cool and be forgotten, who would fear To shed blood still? or where, alas, were then The endless love we owe to worthy men? _Ed._ Love of the worthiest ever bless your highness. [_Exe._ _Actus Quintus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Rollo _with a glass_, Aubrey, _and Servants_. _Rol._ I never studied my glass till now, It is exceeding well; now leave me; Cousin, How takes your eye the object? _Aub._ I have learn'd So much Sir of the Courtier, as to say Your person does become your habit; But being called unto it by a noble War, Would grace an armour better. _Rol._ You are still For that great Art of which you are the Master; Yet I must tell you, that to the encounters We oft attempt, arm'd only thus, we bring As troubled blood, fears mixt with flatt'ring hopes, The danger in the service too as great, As when we are to charge quite through and through The body of an Army. _Aub._ I'le not argue How you may rank the dangers, but will die in't, The ends which they arrive at, are as distant In every circumstance, as far as honour Is from shame and repentance. _Rol._ You are sowr?