_Mir._ Why, 'tis the badge (my Sweet) of that holy Order I shortly must receive, the Cross of _Malta_. _Luc._ What virtue has it? _Mir._ All that we call virtuous. _Luc._ Who gave it first? _Mir._ He that gave all, to save us. _Luc._ Why then 'tis holy too? _Mir._ True sign of holiness, The badge of all his Soldiers that profess him. _Luc._ The badge of all his Soldiers that profess him, Can 't save in dangers? _Mir._ Yes. _Luc._ In troubles comfort? _Mir._ You say true, sweet. _Luc._ In sicknes, restore health? _Mir._ All this it can do. _Luc._ Preserve from evils that afflict our frailties. _Mir._ I hope she will be _Christian_: all these truly. _Luc._ Why are you sick then, sick to death with lust? In danger to be lost? no holy thought, In all that heart, nothing but wandring frailties Wild as the wind, and blind as death or ignorance, Inhabit there. _Mir._ Forgive me heaven, she says true. _Luc._ Dare ye profess that badge, prophane that goodness? _Col._ Thou hast redeem'd thy self again, most rarely. _Luc._ That holiness and truth ye make me wonder at? Blast all the bounty heaven gives, that remembrance. _Col._ O excellent woman. _Luc._ Fling it from ye quickly, If ye be thus resolv'd; I see a virtue Appear in't like a sword, both edges flaming That will consume ye, and your thoughts, to ashes, Let them profess it that are pure, and noble, Gentle, and just of thought, that build the cross, Not those that break it, by ---- if ye touch me, Even in the act, I'll make that cross, and curse ye. _Mir._ You shall not (fair) I did dissemble with ye, And but to try your faith, I fashion'd all this: Yet something you provokt me: this fair cross: By me (if he but please to help, first gave it) Shall nee'r be worn upon a heart corrupted; Go to your rest, my modest, honest servant, My fair, and virtuous maid, and sleep secure there, For when you suffer, I forget this sign here. _Col._ A man of men too: O most perfect Gentleman! _Luc._ All sweet rest to you sir; I am half a _Christian_, The other half, I'll pray for; then for you, Sir. _Mir._ This is the fowlest play I'll shew, good night, sweet. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Mountferrat _and_ Rocca. _Mount._ The Sun's not set yet? _Roc._ No Sir. _Mount._ Would it were, Never to rise again to light the world. And yet, to what vain purpose do I wish it. Since though I were inviron'd with thick mists, Black as _Cymerian_ darkness, or my crimes, There is that here, upon which as an anvile Ten thousand hammers strike, and every spark They force from it, to me's an other Sun To light me to my shame? _Roc._ Take hope, and comfort.