_Enter Theodoret, Brunhalt, Bawd[b]er._ BRUNHALT. Taxe me with these hot tainters? _Theodoret._ You are too sudain; I doe but gently tell you what becomes you And what may bend your honor! how these courses Of loose and lazie pleasures; not suspected But done and known, your mind that grants no limit And all your Actions follows, which loose people That see but through a mist of circumstance Dare term ambitious; all your wayes hide sores Opening in the end to nothing but ulcers. Your instruments like these may call the world And with a fearfull clamor, to examine Why, and to what we govern. From example If not for vertues sake ye may be honest: There have been great ones, good ones, and 'tis necessary Because you are your self, and by your self A self-peece from the touch of power and Justice, You should command your self, you may imagine Which cozens all the world, but chiefly women The name of greatness glorifies your actions And strong power like a pent-house, promise[s] To shade you from opinion; Take heed mother, And let us all take heed these most abuse us The sins we doe, people behold through opticks, Which shews them ten times more than common vices, And often multiplys them: Then what justice Dare we inflict upon the weak offenders When we are theeves our selves? _Brun._ This is, _Martell_, Studied and pen'd unto you, whose base person I charge you by the love you owe a mother And as you hope for blessings from her prayers, Neither to give belief to, nor allowance, Next I tell you Sir, you from whom obedience Is so far fled, that you dare taxe a mother; Nay further, brand her honor with your slanders, And break into the treasures of her credit, Your easiness is abused, your faith fraited With lyes, malitious lyes, your merchant mischief, He that never knew more trade then Tales, and tumbling Suspitious into honest hearts; What you or he, Or all the world dare lay upon my worth, This for your poor opinions: I am shee, And so will bear my self, whose truth and whiteness Shall ever stand as far from these detections As you from dutie, get you better servants People of honest actions without ends, And whip these knaves away, they eat your favours, And turn 'em unto poysons: my known credit Whom all the Courts o' this side _Nile_ have envied, And happy she could site me, brought in question Now in my hours of age and reverence, When rather superstition should be rendred And by a Rush that one days warmth Hath shot up to this swelling; Give me justice, Which is his life. _Theod._ This is an impudence, and he must tell you, that till now mother brought ye a sons obedience, and now breaks it Above the sufferance of a Son. _Bawd._ Bless us!