_Rom._ Would I were not. 80 But Sir, you haue a cause, a cause so iust, Of such necessitie, not to be deferd, As would compell a mayde, whose foot was neuer Set ore her fathers threshold, nor within The house where she was borne, euer spake word, 85 Which was not vshered with pure virgin blushes, To drowne the tempest of a pleaders tongue, And force corruption to giue backe the hire It tooke against her: let examples moue you. You see great men in birth, esteeme and fortune, 90 Rather then lose a scruple of their right, Fawne basely vpon such, whose gownes put off, They would disdaine for Seruants. _Char._ And to these Can I become a suytor? _Rom._ Without losse, Would you consider, that to game their fauors, 95 Our chastest dames put off their modesties, Soldiers forget their honors, vsurers Make sacrifice of Gold, poets of wit, And men religious, part with fame, and goodnesse? Be therefore wonne to vse the meanes, that may 100 Aduance your pious ends. _Char._ You shall orecome. _Rom._ And you receiue the glory, pray you now practise. ’Tis well. _Enter Old Nouall, Liladam, & 3 Creditors._ _Char._ Not looke on me! _Rom._ You must haue patience---- Offer’t againe. _Char._ And be againe contemn’d? _Nou._ I know whats to be done. _1 Cred._ And that your Lordship 105 Will please to do your knowledge, we offer, first Our thankefull hearts heere, as a bounteous earnest To what we will adde. _Nou._ One word more of this I am your enemie. Am I a man Your bribes can worke on? ha? _Lilad._ Friends, you mistake 110 The way to winne my Lord, he must not heare this, But I, as one in fauour, in his sight, May harken to you for my profit. Sir, I pray heare em. _Nou._ Tis well. _Lilad._ Obserue him now. _Nou._ Your cause being good, and your proceedings so, 115 Without corruption; I am your friend, Speake your desires. _2 Cred._ Oh, they are charitable, The Marshall stood ingag’d vnto vs three, Two hundred thousand crownes, which by his death We are defeated of. For which great losse 120 We ayme at nothing but his rotten flesh, Nor is that cruelty. _1 Cred._ I haue a sonne, That talkes of nothing but of Gunnes and Armors, And sweares hee’ll be a soldier, tis an humor I would diuert him from, and I am told 125 That if I minister to him in his drinke Powder, made of this banquerout Marshalls bones, Provided that the carcase rot aboue ground ’Twill cure his foolish frensie.