_Mar._ Softly Captain, we dare not trust the Air with this blest secret, Good Sir, be close again, Heaven has restor'd ye, And by miraculous means, to your fair health, And made the instrument your enemies malice, Which does prognosticate your noble fortune; Let not our careless joy lose you again, Sir, Help to deliver ye to a further danger, I pray you pass in, and rest a while forgotten, For if your Brother come to know you are well again, And ready to inherit as your right, Before we have strength enough to assure your life, What will become of you? and what shall we Deserve in all opinions that are honest, For our loss of judgment, care, and loyalty? _Rug._ Dear Sir, pass in, Heaven has begun the work, And blest us all, let our indeavours follow, To preserve this blessing to our timely uses, And bring it to the noble end we aim at; Let our cares work now, and our eyes pick out An hour to shew ye safely to your Subjects, A secure hour. _Alph._ I am counsel'd; ye are faithful. _Cast._ Which hour shall not be long, as we shall handle it. Once more the tender of my duty. _Alph._ Thank ye. _Cast._ Keep you the Monastery. _Rug._ Strong enough I'le warrant ye. [_Exeunt._ _Enter the Fool, and_ Podrano. _Pod._ Who are all these that crowd about the Court, Fool? Those strange new faces? _Fool._ They are Suitors, Coxcomb, Dainty fine Suitors to the Widow Lady, Thou hadst best make one of 'em, thou wilt be hang'd as handsomly At the Months end, and as much joy follow'd, And 'twere to morrow; as many mourning Bawds for thee, And holy Nuns, whose vestal fire ne'r vanishes, In sackcloth Smocks, as if thou wert Heir apparent To all the impious Suburbs, and the sink-holes. _Pod._ Out you base Rogue. _Fool._ Why dost abuse thy self? Thou art to blame, I take thee for a Gentleman, But why does not thy Lord and Master marry her? _Pod._ Why, she is his Sister. _Fool._ 'Tis the better, Fool, He may make bold with his own flesh and blood, For o' my conscience there's none else will trust him; Then he may pleasure the King at a dead pinch too, Without a _Mephestophilus_, such as thou art, And ingross the Royal disease like a true Subject. _Pod._ Thou wilt be whipt. _Fool._ I am sure thou wilt be hang'd, I have lost a Ducket else, which I would be loth to venture Without certainty. They appear. [_Suitors pass by._ _Pod._ Why these are Rascals. _Fool._ They were meant to be so, does thy Master deserve better kindred? _Pod._ There's an old Lawyer, Trim'd up like a Gally Foist, what would he do with her?