_Rob._ Since injustice In your duke meets this correction, can you press us, With any seeming argument of reason, In foolish pity to decline[142] his dangers, To draw them on ourself? Shall we not be Warn'd by his harms? The league proclaim'd between us Bound neither of us further than to aid Each other, if by foreign force invaded; And so far in my honour I was tied. But since, without our counsel, or allowance, He hath ta'en arms; with his good leave, he must Excuse us if we steer not on a rock We see, and may avoid. Let other monarchs Contend to be made glorious by proud war, And, with the blood of their poor subjects, purchase Increase of empire, and augment their cares In keeping that which was by wrongs extorted, Gilding unjust invasions with the trim Of glorious conquests; we, that would be known The father of our people, in our study And vigilance for their safety, must not change Their ploughshares into swords, and force them from The secure shade of their own vines, to be Scorch'd with the flames of war; or, for our sport, Expose their lives to ruin. _Amb._ Will you, then, In his extremity, forsake your friend? _Rob._ No; but preserve ourself. _Bert._ Cannot the beams Of honour thaw your icy fears? _Rob._ Who's that? _Bert._ A kind of brother, sir, howe'er your subject; Your father's son, and one who blushes that You are not heir to his brave spirit and vigour, As to his kingdom. _Rob._ How's this! _Bert._ Sir, to be His living chronicle, and to speak his praise, Cannot deserve your anger. _Rob._ Where's your warrant For this presumption? _Bert._ Here, sir, in my heart: Let sycophants, that feed upon your favours, Style coldness in you caution, and prefer Your ease before your honour; and conclude, To eat and sleep supinely is the end Of human blessings: I must tell you, sir, Virtue, if not in action, is a vice; And when we move not forward, we go backward[143]: Nor is this peace, the nurse of drones and cowards, Our health, but a disease. _Gasp._ Well urged, my lord. _Ant._ Perfect what is so well begun. _Amb._ And bind My lord your servant. _Rob._ Hair-brain'd fool! what reason Canst thou infer, to make this good?