_Maria._ If so got, 'tis fit Sir Now you possess it, that you should enjoy it In peace, and quiet; I, your Son, and Daughter That reap the harvest of your winters labour, Though debtors for it yet have often trembled, When, in way of discourse, you have related How you came by it. _Alber._ Trembled? how the softness Of your sex may excuse you, I'll not argue, But to the world, howe'er I hold thee noble I should proclaim this boy some cowards bastard, And not the Image of _Albertus_ youth: If when some wish'd occasion calls him forth, To a brave trial, one weak artery Of his, should show a fever, though grim death Put on a thousand dreadful shapes to fright him; The Elements, the Sea, and all the Winds We number on our compass, then conspiring To make the Scæne more ghastly; I must have thee Sirrah, I must, If once you grapple with An enemies ship, to board her, though you see The desperate Gunner ready to give fire, And blow the deck up, or like _Cæsar's_ Soldier Thy hands like his cut off, hang by the teeth, And die undaunted. _Maria._ I even die to hear you: My son, my lov'd _Cesario_ run such hazards? Bless'd Saints forbid it: you have done enough Already for one family, that rude way; I'll keep him safe at home, and train him up A compleat Courtier: may I live to see him, By sweet discourse, and gracious demeanor, Winn, and bring home a fair Wife, and a rich; 'Tis all I rest ambitious of.