_Thier._ Mine eyes when she is nam'd Cannot forget their tribute, and your gift Is not unuseful now. _Lecu._ He's past all cure, that only touch is death. _Thier._ This night I'll keep it, To morrow I will send it you, and full of my affliction. [_Exit_ Thierry. _Brun._ Is the poison mortal? _Lecu._ Above the help of Physick. _Brun._ To my wish, Now for our own security, you _Protaldye_ Shall this night post towards _Austracia_, With Letters to _Theodorets_ bastard son, In which we will make known what for his rising We have done to _Thierry_: no denial, Nor no excuse in such acts must be thought of, Which all dislike, and all again commend When they are brought unto a happy end. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quintus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Devitry _and four Soldiers_. _Devi._ No War, no Money, no Master; banish'd the Court, not trusted in the City, whipt out of the Countrey, in what a triangle runs our misery: let me hear which of you has the best voice to beg in, for other hopes or fortunes I see you have not; be not nice, nature provided you with tones for the purpose, the peoples charity was your heritage, and I would see which of you deserves his birth-right. _Omnes._ We understand you not Captain. _Devit._ You see this cardicue, the last, and the only quintessence of 50 Crowns, distill'd in the limbeck of your gardage, of which happy piece thou shalt be treasurer: now he that can soonest perswade him to part with't, enjoyes it, possesses it, and with it, me and my future countenance. _1._ If they want Art to perswade it, I'll keep it my self. _Devit._ So you be not a partial judge in your own cause, you shall. _Omnes._ A match. _2._ I'll begin to you, brave Sir; be proud to make him happy by your liberality, whose tongue vouchsafes now to petition, was never heard before less than to command. I am a Soldier by profession, a Gentleman by birth, and an Officer by place, whose poverty blushes to be the cause, that so high a virtue should descend to the pity of your charity. _1._ In any case keep your high stile, it is not charity to shame any man, much less a virtue of your eminence, wherefore preserve your worth, and I'll preserve my money. _3._ You perswade? you are shallow, give way to merit: ah by the bread of [God] man, thou hast a bonny countenance and a blith, promising mickle good to a sicker womb, that has trode a long and a sore ground to meet with friends, that will owe much to thy reverence, when they shall hear of thy courtesie to their wandring countreyman. _1._ You that will use your friends so hardly to bring them in debt, Sir, will deserve worse of a stranger, wherefore pead on, pead on, I say.