_Beau._ Performe I must. _Roch._ Why how now _Beaumelle_, thou look’st not well. Th’ art sad of late, come cheere thee, I haue found A wholesome remedy for these mayden fits, 145 A goodly Oake whereon to twist my vine, Till her faire branches grow vp to the starres. Be neere at hand, successe crowne my intent, My businesse fills my little time so full, I cannot stand to talke: I know, thy duty 150 Is handmayd to my will, especially When it presents nothing but good and fit. _Beau._ Sir, I am yours. Oh if my teares proue true, _Exit Daug_ Fate hath wrong’d loue, and will destroy me too. _Enter Romont keeper_ _Rom._ Sent you for me, sir? _Roch._ Yes. _Rom._ Your Lordships pleasure? 155 _Roch._ Keeper, this prisoner I will see forth comming Vpon my word--Sit downe good Colonell. _Exit keeper._ Why I did wish you hither, noble sir, Is to aduise you from this yron carriage, Which, so affected, _Romont_, you weare, 160 To pity and to counsell yee submit With expedition to the great _Nouall_: Recant your sterne contempt, and slight neglect Of the whole Court, and him, and opportunity, Or you will vndergoe a heauy censure 165 In publique very shortly. _Rom._ Hum hum: reuerend sir, I haue obseru’d you, and doe know you well, And am now more affraid you know not me, By wishing my submission to _Nouall_, Then I can be of all the bellowing mouthes 170 That waite vpon him to pronounce the censure, Could it determine me torments, and shame. Submit, and craue forgiuenesse of a beast? Tis true, this bile of state weares purple Tissue. Is high fed, proud: so is his Lordships horse, 175 And beares as rich Caparisons. I know, This Elephant carries on his back not onely Towres, Castles, but the ponderous republique, And neuer stoops for’t, with his strong breath trunk Snuffes others titles, Lordships, Offices, 180 Wealth, bribes, and lyues, vnder his rauenous iawes. Whats this vnto my freedome? I dare dye; And therefore aske this Cammell, if these blessings (For so they would be vnderstood by a man) But mollifie one rudenesse in his nature, 185 Sweeten the eager relish of the law, At whose great helme he sits: helps he the poore In a iust businesse? nay, does he not crosse Euery deserued souldier and scholler, As if when nature made him, she had made 190 The generall Antipathy of all vertue? How sauagely, and blasphemously hee spake Touching the Generall, the graue Generall dead, I must weepe when I thinke on’t. _Roch._ Sir