_Cra._ Your pardon Sir: With reverence to the Queen; yet why should I Fear to speak plain what pointeth to your good? A good old Widow is a hungry thing, (I speak of other Widows, not of Queens.) _The._ Speak to thy purpose. _Cra._ I approach it: Sir, Should young _Euphanes_ claspe the Kingdome thus, And please the good old Lady some one night; What might not she be wrought to put on you, Quite to supplant your birth? neither is she Past children as I take it. _The. Crates_, Thou shak'st me; Thou, that dost hate thy Brother for my love, In my love find one; henceforth be my brother: This Gyant I will fell beneath the earth; I will shine out, and melt his artful wings: _Euphanes_, from my mothers sea of favors Spreads like a River, and runs calmly on, Secure yet from my stormes; like a young pine He grows up planted under a fair Oake, Whose strong large branches yet do's shelter him, And every Traveller admires his beauty; But like a wind, I'l work into his crancks, Trouble his stream, and drown all Vessels that Ride on his Greatness: under my Mothers arms, Like to a stealing tempest will I search, And rend his root from her protection. _Cra._ I, now _Theanor_ speaks like Prince _Theanor_. _The._ But how shall we provoke him to our snares? He has a temper malice cannot move To exceed the bounds of judgement; he is so wise, That we can pick no cause to affront him. _Cra._ No? What better than his crossing your intent? The suit I had to ye? _Conons_ forfeit state (Before he travel'd) for a Riot he Hath from your Mother got restored to him: _The._ Durst he? what is this _Conon_? _Cra._ One that hath, As people say, in foreign Countries pleasur'd him. _Enter Onos, Uncle, Tutor, Neanthes, Sosicles, Eraton._ But now no more; They have brought the Travellors I told you of, That's the sweet youth, that is my Brothers Rivall, That curles his head, for he has little hair, And paints his vizor, for it is no face, That so desires to follow you, my Lord: Shew 'em some countenance, and it will beget Our sport at least. _The._ What villanous Crab-tree legs he makes! His shins are full of true-love knots. _Cra._ His legs were ever villanous, since I knew him. _Era._ Faith his Uncles shanks are somewhat the better. _Nea._ But is't possible he should believe he is not of age? why He is 50, man, in's _Jubile_ I warrant: s'light, he Looks older then a groat, the very stamp on's face is Worne out with handling. _Sos._ Why I tell you all men believe it when they hear him speak, He utters such single matter in so infantly a voice. _Nea._ He looks as like a fellow that I have seen accommodate Gentlemen with Tobacco in our Theaters. _Onos._ Most illustrious Prince.