_Ferd._ My honor'd Lord and Master, if I hold That worth could merit such felicitie, You bred it in me, and first purchas'd it; It is your own: and what productions In all my faculties my soul begets, Your very mark is on: you need not add Rewards to him, that is in [d]ebt to you: You sav'd my life, Sir, in the Massacre; There you begot me new, since foster'd me. O! can I serve to[o] much, or pray for you? Alas, 'tis slender paiment to your bountie. Your daughter is a paradice, and I Unworthie to be set there; you may chuse The royalst seeds of _Milain_. _Ben._ Prethee peace, Thy goodness makes me weep; I am resolv'd: I am no Lord o' th' time, to tie my blood To sordid muck; I have enough: my name, My [s]tate and honors I will store in thee, Whose wisdom will rule well, keep and increase: A knave or fool, that could confer the like, Would bate each hour, diminish every day. Thou art her price-lot th[e]n, drawn out by fate; An honest wise man is a Princes mate. _Ferd._ Sir, Heaven and you have over-charg'd my brest With grace beyond my continence; I shall burst: The blessing you have given me (witness Saints) I would not change for _Millain_. But, my Lord, Is she prepar'd? _Ben._ What needs Preparative, Where such a Cordial is prescrib'd as thou? Thy person and thy virtues in one scale, Shall poize hers, with her beautie and her wealth; If not, I add my will unto thy weight; Thy mother's with her now. Son, take my keys, And let this prepar[a]tion for this Marriage, (This welcome Marriage) long determin'd here, Be quick, and gorgeous.--_Gerrard._ _Enter Gerrard._ _Ger._ My good Lord, My Lord, your brother craves your conference Instantly, on affairs of high import. _Ben._ Why, what news? _Ger._ The Tyrant, my good Lord, Is sick to death of his old Apoplexie, Whereon the States advise, that Letters-missive Be straight dispatcht to all the neighbour-Countreys, And Schedules too divulg'd on every post, To enquire the lost Duke forth: their purpose is To re-instate him. _Ben._ 'Tis a pious deed. _Ferdinand_, to my daughter: this delay (Though to so good a purpose) angers me; But I'll recover it. Be secret, son. Go woo with truth and expedition. [_Exit._ _Ferd._ O my unsounded joy! how fares my _Gerrard_, My noble twin-friend? fie, thy l[oo]k is heavie, Sullen, and sowre; blanch it: didst thou know My cause of joy, thou 'ldst never sorrow more, I know thou lov'st me so, How dost thou? _Ger._ Well, Too well: my fraught of health my sickness is; In life, I am dead; by living dying still.