_Rom._ My Lord, I am not stubborne, I can melt, you see, 195 And prize a vertue better then my life: For though I be not learnd, I euer lou’d That holy Mother of all issues, good, Whose white hand (for a Scepter) holds a File To pollish roughest customes, and in you 200 She has her right: see, I am calme as sleepe, But when I thinke of the grosse iniuries The godlesse wrong done, to my Generall dead, I raue indeed, and could eate this Nouall A lsoule-esse Dromodary. _Roch._ Oh bee temperate, 205 Sir, though I would perswade, I’le not constraine: Each mans opinion freely is his owne, Concerning any thing or any body, Be it right or wrong, tis at the Iudges perill. _Enter Baumond,_ _Bau._ These men, Sir, waite without, my Lord is come too. 210 _Roch._ Pay ’em those summes vpon the table, take Their full releases: stay, I want a witnesse: Let mee intreat you Colonell, to walke in, And stand but by, to see this money pay’d, It does concerne you and your friends, it was 215 The better cause you were sent for, though sayd otherwise. The deed shall make this my request more plaine. _Rom._ I shall obey your pleasure Sir, though ignorant To what is tends? _Exit Seruant: Romont. Enter Charolois_ _Roch._ Worthiest Sir, 220 You are most welcome: fye, no more of this: You haue out-wept a woman, noble Charolois. No man but has, or must bury a father. _Char._ Graue Sir, I buried sorrow, for his death, In the graue with him. I did neuer thinke 225 Hee was immortall, though I vow I grieue, And see no reason why the vicious, Vertuous, valiant and vnworthy man Should dye alike. _Roch._ They do not. _Char._ In the manner Of dying, Sir, they do not, but all dye, 230 And therein differ not: but I haue done. I spy’d the liuely picture of my father, Passing your gallery, and that cast this water Into mine eyes: see, foolish that I am, To let it doe so. _Roch._ Sweete and gentle nature, 235 How silken is this well comparatiuely To other men! I haue a suite to you Sir. _Char._ Take it, tis granted. _Roch._ What? _Char._ Nothing, my Lord. _Roch._ Nothing is quickly granted. _Char._ Faith, my Lord, That nothing granted, is euen all I haue, 240 For (all know) I haue nothing left to grant. _Roch._ Sir, ha’ you any suite to me? Ill grant You something, any thing.