_King_. No more I mean there were that heard it. _Cal_. How no more? would you have more? why am Not I enough to hang a thousand Rogues? _King_. But so you may hang honest men too if you please. _Cal_. I may, 'tis like I will do so; there are a hundred will swear it for a need too, if I say it. _King_. Such witnesses we need not. _Cal_. And 'tis hard if my Word cannot hang a boysterous knave. _King_. Enough; where's _Strato_? _Stra_. Sir! _Enter Strato_. _King_. Why where's all the company? call _Amintor_ in. _Evadne_, where's my Brother, and _Melantius_? Bid him come too, and _Diphilus_; call all [_Exit Strato_. That are without there: if he should desire The combat of you, 'tis not in the power Of all our Laws to hinder it, unless we mean to quit 'em. _Cal_. Why if you do think 'Tis fit an old Man and a Counsellor, To fight for what he sayes, then you may grant it. _Enter Amin. Evad. Mel. Diph. [Lisip.] Cle. Stra. Diag_. _King_. Come Sirs, _Amintor_ thou art yet a Bridegroom, And I will use thee so: thou shalt sit down; _Evadne_ sit, and you _Amintor_ too; This Banquet is for you, sir: Who has brought A merry Tale about him, to raise a laughter Amongst our wine? why _Strato_, where art thou? Thou wilt chop out with them unseasonably When I desire 'em not. _Strato_. 'Tis my ill luck Sir, so to spend them then. _King_. Reach me a boul of wine: _Melantlius_, thou art sad. _Amin_. I should be Sir the merriest here, But I ha' ne're a story of mine own Worth telling at this time. _King_. Give me the Wine. _Melantius_, I am now considering How easie 'twere for any man we trust To poyson one of us in such a boul. _Mel_. I think it were not hard Sir, for a Knave. _Cal_. Such as you are. _King_. I' faith 'twere easie, it becomes us well To get plain dealing men about our selves, Such as you all are here: _Amintor_, to thee And to thy fair _Evadne_. _Mel_. Have you thought of this _Calianax_? [_Aside_. _Cal_. Yes marry have I. _Mel_. And what's your resolution? _Cal_. Ye shall have it soundly? _King_. Reach to _Amintor_, _Strato_. _Amin_. Here my love, This Wine will do thee wrong, for it will set Blushes upon thy cheeks, and till thou dost a fault, 'twere pity.