_Vir._ Thy discretion In this may answer for me; look on _Naples_ The Countrey where we both were born and bred, _Naples_ the Paradise of _Italy_, As that is of the earth; _Naples_, that was The sweet retreat of all the worthiest _Romans_, When they had shar'd the spoils of the whole world; This flourishing Kingdom, whose inhabitants For wealth and bravery, liv'd like petty Kings, Made subject now to such a tyrannie. As that fair City that receiv'd her name From _Constantine_ the great, now in the power Of barbarous Infidels, may forget her own; To look with pity on our miseries; So far in our calamities we transcend her. For since this _Arragonian_ tyrant, _Ferrand_, Seiz'd on the gover[n]ment, there's nothing left us That we can call our own, but our afflictions. _Jul._ And hardly those; the Kings strange cruelty, Equals all presidents of tyranny. _Vir._ Equal say you? He has out-gone, the worst compar'd to him; Nor _Phalaris_, nor _Dionysius_, _Caligula_, nor _Nero_ can be mention'd; They yet as Kings, abus'd their Regal power; This as a Merchant, all the Countreys fat, He wholly does ingross unto himself; Our Oils he buys at his own price, then sells them To us, at dearer rates; our Plate and Jewels, Under a fain'd pretence of publique use, He borrows; which deny'd his instruments force. The Races of our horses he takes from us; Yet keeps them in our pastures; rapes of Matrons, And Virgins, are too frequent; never man Yet thank'd him for a pardon; for Religion, It is a thing he dreams not of. _Jul._ I have heard, How true it is, I know not; that he sold The Bishoprick of _Tarent_ to a Jew, For thirteen thousand Duckets. _Vir._ I was present, And saw the money paid; the day would leave me, E'r I could number out his impious actions; Or what the miserable Subject suffers; And can you entertain in such a time, A thought of dalliance? tears, and sighs, and groans, Would better now become you. _Jul._ They indeed are, The only weapons, our poor Sex can use, When we are injur'd; and they may become us; But for me[n] that were born free men, of Ranck; That would be Registred Fathers of their Countrey; And to have on their Tombs in Golden Letters, The noble stile of Tyrant-killers, written; To weep like fools and Women, and not like wise men. To practise a redress, deserves a name, Which fits not me to give.