_Fred._ A month or two, it shall be carried still As if she kept with you, and were a stranger, Rather a hater of the grace I offer; And then I will return her with such honour-- _Val._ 'Tis very like I dote much on your Honour. _Fred._ And load her with such favour too, _Valerio_-- _Val._ She never shall claw off? I humbly thank ye. _Fred._ I'll make ye both the happiest, and the richest, And the mightiest too-- _Val._ But who shall work her, Sir? For on my Conscience she is very honest, And will be hard to cut as a rough Diamond. _Fred._ Why, you must work her, any thing from your tongue, Set off with golden, and perswasive Language, Urging your dangers too. _Val._ But all this time Have you the conscience, Sir, to leave me nothing, Nothing to play withal? _Fred._ There be a thousand, take where thou wilt. _Val._ May I make bold with your Queen, She is useless to your Grace, as it appears, Sir, And but a loyal Wife that may be lost too; I have a mind to her, and then 'tis equal? _Fred._ How, Sir? _Val._ 'Tis so, Sir, thou most glorious impudence, Have I not wrongs enow to suffer under, But thou must pick me out to make a Monster? A hated Wonder to the World? Do you start At my intrenching on your private liberty, And would you force a high-way through mine honour, And make me pave it too? But that thy Queen Is of that excellent honesty, And guarded with Divinity about her, No loose thought can come near, nor flame unhallowed, I would so right my self. _Fred._ Why, take her to ye, I am not vex'd at this, thou shalt enjoy her, I'll be thy friend if that may win thy courtesie. _Val._ I will not be your Bawd, though for your Royalty. Was I brought up, and nourish'd in the Court, With thy most Royal Brother, and thy self, Upon thy Fathers charge, thy happy Fathers, And suckt the sweetness of all humane arts, Learn'd Arms and Honour, to become a Rascal; Was this the expectation of my Youth, My growth of Honour? Do you speak this truly, Or do you try me, Sir? for I believe not, At least I would not, and methinks 'tis impossible There should be such a Devil in a Kings shape, Such a malignant Fiend. _Fred._ I thank ye, Sir, To morrow is your last day, and look to it, Get from my sight, away. _Val._ Ye are--Oh, my heart's too high and full to think upon ye. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Evanthe, _and_ Cassandra. _Evan._ You think it fit then, mortified _Cassandra_, That I should be a Whore?