_Get._ And look to your places, or I'le make ye smoke else. Sirrah, I drank a cup of wine at your house yesterday; A good smart wine. _Lictor._ Send him the piece, he likes it. _Get._ And ate the best wild Boar at that same Farmers. _2 Su._ I have half left yet: your worship shall command it. _Get._ A bit will serve: give me some rest: gods help me. How shall I labour when I am a Senator? _Del._ 'Tis a fit place indeed. 'Save your Mastership; Do you know us, Sir? _Get._ These women are still troublesom. There be houses providing for such wretched women, And some small Rents, to set ye a spinning. _Dru._ Sir, We are no Spinsters; nor, if you look upon us, So wretched as you take us. _Del._ Does your Mightiness That is a great destroyer of your Memorie, Yet understand our faces? _Get._ 'Prethee keep off, woman; It is not fit I should know every creature. Although I have been familiar with thee heretofore, I must not know thee now: my place neglects thee. Yet, because I daign a glimpse of your remembrances, Give me your Suits, and wait me a month hence. _Del._ Our Suits are, Sir, to see the Emperour, The Emperour _Dioclesian_, to speak to him, And not to wait on you. We have told you all, Sir. _Get._ I laugh at your simplicitie, poor women: See the Emperour? why you are deceiv'd: now The Emperour appears but once in seven years, And then he shines not on such weeds as you are. Forward, and keep your State, and keep beggers from me. _Drus._ Here is a prettie youth. [_Exeunt_. _Enter_ Diocles. _Del._ He shall be prettie, Or I will want my will, since ye are so high, Sir: I'le raise ye higher, or my art shall fail me. Stand close, he comes. _Dio._ How am I cross'd and tortur'd! My most wish'd happiness, my lovely Mistris, That must make good my hopes, and link my greatness, Yet sever'd from mine arms! Tell me, high heaven, How have I sinn'd, that you should speak in thunder, In horrid thunder, when my heart was ready To leap into her breast? the Priest was ready? The joyful virgins and the young men ready? When _Hymen_ stood with all his flames about him Blessing the bed? the house with full joy sweating? And expectation, like the _Roman_ Eagle, Took stand, and call'd all eyes? It was your honour; And e're you give it full, do you destroy it? Or was there some dire Star? some Devil that did it? Some sad malignant Angel to mine honour? With you I dare not rage. _Del._ With me thou canst not, Though it was I. Nay, look not pale and frighted; I'le fright thee more. With me thou canst not quarrel; I rais'd the thunder, to rebuke thy falshood: Look here, to her thy falshood. Now be angry, And be as great in evil as in Empire. _Dio._ Bless me, ye Powers.