_Max._ Yes, and I laugh at it; And so will any man can tell but twenty, That is not blind, as you are blind and ignorant: Do you think she knows your fortune? _Dio._ I do think it. _Max._ I know she has the name of a rare Sooth-sayer; But do you in your Conscience believe her holy? Inspir'd with such prophetick Fire? _Dio._ Yes, in my conscience. _Max._ And that you must upon necessity, From her words, be a _Cæsar_? _Dio._ If I live. _Max._ There's one stop yet. _Dio._ And follow her directions. _Max._ But do not juggle with me. _Dio._ In faith, Cousin, So full a truth hangs ever on her Prophecies, That how I should think otherwise. _Max._ Very well, Sir; You then believe (for methinks 'tis most necessary) She knows her own Fate? _Dio._ I believe it certain. _Max._ Dare you but be so wise to let me try it, For I stand doubtful. _Dio._ How? _Max._ Come nearer to me, Because her cunning Devil shall not prevent me; Close, close, and hear; If she can turn this destiny, I'll be of your faith too. _Dio._ Forward, I fear not; For if she knows not this, sure she knows nothing; _Enter_ Delphia. I am so confident-- _Max._ 'Faith, so am I too, That I shall make her Devils sides hum. _Dio._ She comes here; Go take your stand. _Max._ Now holly, or you howl for't. [_Exit._ _Dio._ 'Tis pity this young man should be so stubborn. Valiant he is, and to his valour temperate, Only distrustful of delays in Fortune; I love him dearly well. _Del._ Now, my Son _Diocles_, Are ye not weary of your game to day? And are ye well? _Dio._ Yes, Mother, well and lusty, Only ye make me hunt for empty shadows. _Del._ You must have patience, Rome _was not built in one day_: And he that hopes, must give his hopes their Currents. You have kill'd a mighty Boar. _Dio._ But I am no Emperour: Why do you fool me thus, and make me follow Your flattering expectation hour by hour? Rise early, and sleep late? to feed your appetites, Forget my Trade, my Arms? forsake mine honour, Labour and sweat to arrive at a base memory? Oppose my self to hazards of all sorts, Only to win the barbarous name of Butcher? _Del._ Son, you are wise. _Dio._ But you are cunning, Mother; And with that Cunning, and the faith I give you, Ye lead me blindly to no end, no honour: You find ye are daily fed, you take no labour; Your family at ease, they know no market, And therefore to maintain this, you speak darkly, As darkly still ye nourish it, whilst I, Being a credulous and obsequious Coxcomb, Hunt daily, and sweat hourly, to find out To clear your mystery; kill Boar on Boar, And make your Spits and Pots bow with my Bounties; Yet I still poorer, further still--