_Duke._ Make that good here: [_He joyns_ Shamont's _hand_ I take thee at thy word, Sir. [_and his Sisters_. _Sham._ Oh my Lord, Love would appear too bold, and rude from me, Honour and admiration are her rights, Her goodness is my Saint, my Lord. _Duke._ I see, Y'are both too modest to bestow your selves: I'll save that virtue still, 'tis but my pains: come, It shall be so. _Sham._ This gift does but set forth my poverty. _La._ Sir, that which you complain of, is my riches. _Enter_ Shamont's _brother the Soldier_. _Duke._ Soldier, now every noise sounds peace, th'art welcome. _Sol._ Sir, my repentance sues for your blest favour, Which once obtain'd, no injury shall lose it; I'll suffer mightier wrongs. _Duke._ Rise, lov'd and pardon'd: For where Hope fail'd, nay Art it self resign'd, Thou'st wrought that cure, which skill could never find; Nor did there cease, but to our peace extend; Never could wrongs boast of a nobler end. [_Exeunt._ EPILOGUE. _Our Poet bid us say for his own part,_ _He cannot lay too much forth of his Art:_ _But fears our over-acting passions may,_ _As not adorn, deface his labour'd Play,_ _Yet still he's resolute, for what is writ_ _Of Nicer valour, and assumes the wit:_ _But for the Love-Scænes which he ever meant_, Cupid _in's Peticoat should represent,_ _He'll stand no shock of censure; the Play's good,_ _He says he knows it, (if well understood.)_ _But we (blind god) beg, if thou art Divine,_ _Thou'lt shoot thy Arrows round, this Play was thine._ Mr. _Francis Beaumonts_ Letter to _Ben. Johnson_, written before he and Mr. _Fletcher_ came to _London_, with two of the precedent Comedies then not finish'd, which deferr'd their merry meetings at the _Mermaid_.