_Dor._ I'le tell thee what I think, the plague, war, famine, Nay put in dice and drunkenness (and those You'l grant are pretty helps) kill not so many (I mean so many noble) as your loves do, Rather your lewdness, I crave your mercy, women, Be not offended if I anger ye. I am sure ye have touch'd me deep, I came to be merry, And with my children, but to see one ruin'd By this fell accident--are they all dead? If they be, speak? _Clean._ What news? _Enter_ Beronte, Alcidon, Clarinda, _following with a_ _Letter._ _Ber._ What, dead? ye pose me; I understand you not. _Clea._ My Brother _Lidian_, _Clarange_, and their seconds. _Ber._ Here is one of 'em, and sure this Gentleman's alive. _Alci._ I hope so, so is your Son, Sir, so is brave _Clarange_: They fought indeed, and they were hurt sufficiently; We were all hurt, that bred the general rumour, But friends again all, and like friends we parted. _Clea._ Heard ye of _Lisander_? _Ber._ Yes, and miss'd him narrowly: He was one of the combatants, fought with this Gentleman, Second against your Brother, by his wisdom (For certainly good fortune follows him) All was made peace, I'le tell you the rest at dinner, For we are hungry. _Alci._ I before I eat Must pay a vow I am sworn to; my life, Madam, Was at _Lisander's_ mercy, I live by it; And for the noble favour, he desir'd me To kiss your fair hand for him, offering This second service as a Sacrifice At the Altar of your vertues. _Dor._ Come joy on all sides; Heaven will not suffer honest men to perish. _Clea._ Be proud of such a friend. _Dor._ Forgive me, Madam, It was a grief might have concern'd you near too. _Clea._ No work of excellence but still _Lisander_, Go thy waies, Worthy. _Olin._ We'l be merry too, Were I to speak again, I would be wiser. [_Ex. Manent_ Cal. Clarin. _Cal._ Too much of this rare cordial makes me sick, However I obey you. _Clarin._ Now or never is an apt time to move her, Madam. _Cal._ Who's that? _Clarin._ Your servant, I would speak with your Ladyship. _C[al]._ Why dost thou look about? _Clarin._ I have private business That none must hear but your _Lisander_-- _Cal._ Where? _Clar._ Nay, is not here, but would entreat this favour, Some of your Balsam from your own hand given, For he is much hurt, and that he thinks would cure him. _Cal._ He shall have all, my Prayers too. _Clar._ But conceive me, It must be from your self immediately, Pity so brave a Gentleman should perish, He is superstitious, and he holds your hand Of infinite power; I would not urge this, Madam, But only in a mans extreams to help him.