_Bal._ Conspirator, my lord! Doth that empaire him? Cæsar beganne to tyrannize; and when vertue, Nor the religion of the Gods, could serve 110 To curbe the insolence of his proud lawes, Brutus would be the Gods just instrument. What said the Princesse, sweet Antigone, In the grave Greeke tragedian, when the question Twixt her and Creon is for lawes of Kings? 115 Which when he urges, shee replies on him Though his lawes were a Kings, they were not Gods; Nor would shee value Creons written lawes With Gods unwrit edicts, since they last not This day and the next, but every day and ever, 120 Where Kings lawes alter every day and houre, And in that change imply a bounded power. _Gui._ Well, let us leave these vaine disputings what Is to be done, and fall to doing something. When are you for your government in Cambray? 125 _Bal._ When you command, my lord. _Gui._ Nay, that's not fit. Continue your designements with the King, With all your service; onely, if I send, Respect me as your friend, and love my Clermont. _Bal._ Your Highnesse knowes my vowes. _Gui._ I, tis enough. 130 _Exit Guise. Manet Bal[igny]._ [Sidenote: Ἀμήχανον δὲ παντὸς, &c. _Impossible est viri cognoscere mentem ac voluntatem, priusquam in Magistratibus apparet._ Sopho. _Antig._] _Bal._ Thus must wee play on both sides, and thus harten In any ill those men whose good wee hate. Kings may doe what they list, and for Kings, subjects, Eyther exempt from censure or exception; For, as no mans worth can be justly judg'd 135 But when he shines in some authoritie, So no authoritie should suffer censure But by a man of more authoritie. Great vessels into lesse are emptied never, There's a redoundance past their continent ever. 140 These _virtuosi_ are the poorest creatures; For looke how spinners weave out of themselves Webs, whose strange matter none before can see; So these, out of an unseene good in vertue, Make arguments of right and comfort in her, 145 That clothe them like the poore web of a spinner. _Enter Clermont._ _Clermont._ Now, to my challenge. What's the place, the weapon? _Bal._ Soft, sir! let first your challenge be received. Hee would not touch, nor see it. _Cler._ Possible! How did you then? _Bal._ Left it, in his despight. 150 But when hee saw mee enter so expectlesse, To heare his base exclaimes of "murther, murther," Made mee thinke noblesse lost, in him quicke buried. [Sidenote: _Quo mollius degunt, eo servilius._ Epict.]