For I doe now begin to feel my self Turning into a halter, and the ladder Turning from me, one pulling at my legs too. _Theod._ These truths are no mans tales, but all mens troubles, They are, though your strange greatness would out-stare u'm: Witness the daily Libels, almost Ballads In every place, almost in every Province, Are made upon your lust, Tavern discourses, Crowds cram'd with whispers; Nay, the holy Temples, Are not without your curses: Now you would blush, But your black tainted blood dare not appear For fear I should fright that too. _Brun._ O ye gods! _Theod._ Do not abuse their names: They see your actions And your conceal'd sins, though you work like Moles, Lies level to their justice. _Brun._ Art thou a Son? _Theod._ The more my shame is of so bad a mother, And more your wretchedness you let me be so; But woma[n], for a mothers name hath left me Since you have left your honor; Mend these ruins, And build again that broken fame, and fairly; Your most intemperate fires have burnt, and quickly Within these ten days take a Monasterie, A most strickt house; a house where none may whisper, Where no more light is known but what may make ye Believe there is a day where no hope dwells, Nor comfort but in tears. _Brun._ O miserie! _Theod._ And there to cold repentance, and starv'd penance Tye your succeeding days; Or curse me heaven If all your guilded knaves, brokers, and bedders, Even he you built from nothing, strong _Protal[dy]e_, Be not made ambling Geldings; All your maids, If that name doe not shame 'em, fed with spunges To suck away their ranckness; And your self Onely to empty Pictures and dead Arras Offer your old desires. _Brun._ I will not curse you, Nor lay a prophesie upon your pride, Though heaven might grant me both: unthankfull, no, I nourish'd ye, 'twas I, poor I groan'd for you, 'Twas I felt what you suffer'd, I lamented When sickness or sad hours held back your swe[e]tness; 'Twas I pay'd for your sleeps, I watchd your wakings: My daily cares and fears, that rid, plaid, walk'd, Discours'd, discover'd, fed and fashion'd you To what you are, and I am thus rewarded. _Theod._ But that I know these tears I could dote on 'em, And kneell to catch 'em as they fall, then knit 'em Into an Armlet, ever to be honor'd; But woman they are dangerous drops, deceitfull, Full of the weeper, anger and ill nature. _Brun._ In my last hours despis'd. _Theod._ That Text should tell How ugly it becomes you to err thus; Your flames are spent, nothing but smoke maintains ye; And those your favour and your bounty suffers Lye not with you, they do but lay lust on you And then imbrace you as they caught a palsie; Your power they may love, and like spanish Jennetts Commit with such a gust.