_King._ So many pressing me, and with such reasons Moving compassion, I hope it will not Be censur'd levity in me, though I borrow In this from justice to relieve my mercy; I grant his pardon at your intercession, But still on this condition; you _Lisander_, In expiation of your guilt, shall build A monument for my _Cloridon_, and _C[h]rysanthes_: And never henceforth draw a Sword, but when By us you are commanded, in defence of The flower de Luce, and after one years sorrow For your dear friend, _Cleander's_ wretched fate, Marry _Calista_. _Enter_ Lidian. _Lis._ On your sacred hand, I vow to do it seriously. _Lid._ Great Sir, stay, Leave not your seat of justice, till you have Given sentence in a cause as much important As this you have determined. _King. Lidian?_ _Enter_ Clarange, _and_ Frier. _Lid._ He Sir, your humblest subject, I accuse _Clarange_ Of falshood in true friendship at the height; We both were suiters to this Lady, both Injoyn'd one pennance. _Clar._ Trouble not the King With an unnecessarie repetition Of what the court's familiar with already. _Kin. Clarange?_ _Dor._ With a shaven crown? _Olin._ Most strange. _Clar._ Look on thy rival, your late servant, Madam, But now devoted to a better Mistris, The Church, whose orders I have took upon me: I here deliver up my interest to her; And what was got with cunning as you thought, I simply thus surrender: heretofore, You did outstrip me in the race of friendship, I am your equal now. _Dor._ A suit soon ended. _Clar._ And joyning thus your hands, I know both willing, I may do in the Church my _Friers_ Office In marrying you. _Lid._ The victory is yours, Sir. _King._ It is a glorious one, and well sets of[f] Our Scene of mercy; to the dead we tender Our sorrow, to the living ample wishes Of future happiness: 'tis a Kings duty To prove himself a Father to his subjects: And I shall hold it if this well succeed, A meritorious, and praise worthy deed. [_Exeunt._ Prologue.