_Timan._ There is a fellow, Sir, close i'th' Lobby: You o'the Guard, look to the door there. _Leon._ But let me know the business. _Tima._ Oh that the hearts of men should be so hard'ned Against so good a Duke, for Gods sake, Sir, Seek means to save your self; This wretched slave Has his sword in his hand, I know his heart: Oh it hath almost kill'd me with the thought of it. _Leon._ Where is he? _Enter the Guard, and bring him in._ _Timan._ I'th' Lobby Sir, close in a corner: Look to your selves for Heavens sake, Me thinks he is here already. Fellows of the Guard be valiant. _Leon._ Goe Sirs, and apprehend him; Treason shall Never dare me in mine own Gates. _Tim._ 'Tis done. [_There they bring the Prince in._ _Bacha._ And thou shalt find it to thy best content. _Leon._ Are these the comforts of my age? They're happy that end their daies contented With a little, and live aloof from dangers, to a King Every content doth a new peril bring. Oh let me live no longer, shame of Nature, Bastard to Honor: Traytor, Murderer, Devil in a humane shape. Away with him, He shall not breathe his hot [inf]ection here. _Leu._ Sir, hear me. _Leon._ Am I or he your Duke? away with him To a close prison: your Highness now shall know, Such branches must be cropt before they grow. _Leu._ Whatever fortune comes, I bid it welcome, My innocency is my Armor: gods preserve you. [_Exit._ _Bacha._ Fare thee well, I shall never see so brave a Gent. Would I could weep out his offences. _Tim._ Or I could weep out mine eyes. _Leon._ Come Gentlemen, we'll determine presently About his death: we cannot be too forward in our Safety: I am very sick, lead me unto my bed. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Citizen and his Boy._ _Cit._ Sirrah, goe fetch my Fox from the Cutlers: There's money for the scowring: Tell him I stop a groat since the last great Muster: he had in stone Pitch for the bruise: he took with the recoyling of his Gun. _Boy._ Yes Sir. _Cit._ And do you hear? when you come, Take down my Buckler, and sweep the Cobwebs off: and grind the pick o[n']t, and fetch a Nail or two: and tack on bracers: your Mistriss made a pot-lid ont't, I thank her, at her Ma[yd]s Wedding, and burnt off the Handle. _Boy._ I will Sir. [_Exit._ _Cit._ Who's within here, hoe Neighbor, not stirring yet? _2 Cit._ Oh, good morrow, good morrow: what news, what news? _1 Cit._ It holds, he dies this morning. _2 Cit._ Then happy man be his fortune, I am resolv'd. _1 Cit._ And so am I, and forty more good fellows, That will not give their heads for the washing, I take it.