_Pol._ No, never, never; 'Tis not descent, nor will of Princes does it, 'Tis Vertue which I want, 'tis Temperance, Man, honest man: is't fit your Majesty Should call my drunkenness, my rashness, Brother? Or such a blessed Maid my breach of faith, (For I am most lascivious) and fell angers In which I am also mischievous, her Husband? O Gods preserve her! I am wild as Winter, Ambitious as the Devil: out upon me, I hate my self, Sir, if ye dare bestow her Upon a Subject, ye have one deserves her. _King._ But him she does not love: I know your meaning. This young mans love unto his noble Brother Appears a mirrour; what must now be done Lords? For I am gravel'd, if she have not him, She dies for certain, if his Brother miss her, Farewel to him, and all our honours. _1 Lord._ He is dead, Sir, Your Grace has heard of that, and strangely. _King._ No, I can assure you no, there was a trick in't, Read that, and then know all; what ails the Gentleman? Hold him; how do ye Sir? [Polydor _is sick o'th' sudden_. _Pol._ Sick o'th' sudden, Extreamly ill, wondrous ill. _King._ Where did it take ye? _Pol._ Here in my head, Sir, and my heart, for Heaven sake. _King._ Conduct him to his Chamber presently, And bid my Doctors-- _Pol._ No, I shall be well, Sir, I do beseech your Grace, even for the Gods sake Remember my poor Brother, I shall pray then. _King._ Away, he grows more weak still: I will do it, Or Heaven forget me ever. Now your Counsels, [_Ex._ Pol. For I am at my wits end; what with you Sir? _Enter_ Messenger _with a Letter_. _Mess._ Letters from warlike _Pelius_. _King._ Yet more troubles? The _Spartans_ are in Arms, and like to win all: Supplies are sent for, and the General; This is more cross than t'other; come let's to him, For he must have her, 'tis necessity, Or we must lose our honours, let's plead all, For more than all is needful, shew all reason If love can hear o' that side, if she yield We have fought best, and won the noblest field. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Eumenes, _Captains_, Stremon. _1 Cap._ I have brought the wench, a lusty wench, And somewhat like the Princess. _Eumen._ 'Tis the better, let's see her, And go you in and tell him, that her Grace Is come to visit him: how sleeps he _Stremon_? _Stre._ He cannot, only thinks, and calls on _Polydor_, Swears he will not be fool'd; sometimes he rages, And sometimes sits and muses. [_Exit_ Stremon. _Enter_ Whore, _and_ Captain. _Eume._ He's past all help sure? How do ye like her? _2 Capt._ By th' mass a good round Virgin, And at first sight resembling, she is well cloath'd too. _Eume._ But is she sound? _2 Cap._ Of wind and limb, I warrant her. _Eume._ You are instructed Lady? _Who._ Yes, and know, Sir, How to behave my self, ne're fear.