_Luc._ Yet tell him this has thus much weaken'd me, That I have heard his Knaves, and you his Matrons, Fit Nurses for his sins, which gods forgive me; But ever to be leaning to his folly, Or to be brought to love his lust, assure him, And from her mouth, whose life shall make it certain, I never can: I have a noble Husband, Pray tell him that too, yet a noble name, A Noble Family, and last a Conscience: Thus much for your answer: For your selves, Ye have liv'd the shame of women, dye the better. [_Exit_ Luc. _Phor._ What's now to do? _Ard._ Ev'n as she said, to dye, For there's no living here, and women thus, I am sure for us two. _Phor._ Nothing stick upon her? _Ard._ We have lost a mass of mony; well Dame Vertue, Yet ye may halt if good luck serve. _Phor._ Worms take her, She has almost spoil'd our trade. _Ard._ So godly; This is ill breeding, _Phorba_. _Phor._ If the women Should have a longing now to see this Monster, And she convert 'em all. _Ard._ That may be, _Phorba_, But if it be, I'll have the young men gelded; Come, let's go think, she must not 'scape us thus; There is a certain season, if we hit, That women may be rid without a Bit. [_Exeunt._ SCENE III. _Enter_ Maximus, _and_ Æcius. _Max._ I cannot blame the Nations, noble friend, That they fall off so fast from this wild man, When (under our Allegiance be it spoken, And the most happy tye of our affectio[n]s) The worlds weight groans beneath him; Where lives vertue, Honour, discretion, wisdom? who are call'd And chosen to the steering of the Empire But Bawds, and singing Girls? O my _Æcius_ The glory of a Souldier, and the truth Of men made up for goodness sake, like shells Grow to the ragged walls for want of action; Only your happy self, and I that love you, Which is a larger means to me than favour. _Æci._ No more, my worthy friend, though these be truths, And though these truths would ask a Reformation, At least a little squaring: yet remember, We are but Subjects, _Maximus_; obedience To what is done, and grief for what is ill done, Is all we can call ours: The hearts of Princes Are like the Temples of the gods; pure incense, Until unhallowed hands defile those offerings, Burns ever there; we must not put 'em out, Because the Priests that touch those sweets, are wicked; We dare not, dearest Friend, nay more, we cannot, While we consider who we are, and how, To what laws bound, much more to what Law-giver; Whilest Majesty is made to be obeyed, And not to be inquired into, whilst gods and angels Make but a rule as we do, though a stricter; Like desperate and unseason'd Fools let flye Our killing angers, and forsake our honours.