_8. Atten._ What like the Eagle then, With often flight wilt thou thy feathers loose? O King canst thou indure to see thy Court, Of finest wits and Iudgements dispossest, Whilst cloking craft with soothing climbes so high, As each bewailes ambition is so bad? Thy father left thee with estate and Crowne, A learned councell to direct thy Court, These careleslie O King thou castest off, 1070 To entertaine a traine of Sicophants: Thou well mai’st see, although thou wilt not see, That euery eye and eare both sees and heares The certaine signes of thine inconstinence: Thou art alyed vnto the English King, By marriage a happie friend indeed, If vsed well, if not a mightie foe. Thinketh your grace he ean indure and brooke, To haue a partner in his daughters loue? Thinketh your grace the grudge of priuie wrongs 1080 Will not procure him chaunge his smiles to threats? Oh be not blinde to good, call home your Lordes, Displace these flattering Gnatoes, driue them hence: Loue and with kindnesse take your wedlocke wife Or else (which God forbid) I feare a change, Sinne cannot thriue in courts without a plague. _K. of S._ Go pack thou too, vnles thou mẽd thy talk: On paine of death proud Bishop get you gone, Vnlesse you headlesse mean to hoppe away. _8. Atten._ Thou god of heauẽ preuent my countries fall. 1090 _Exeunt._ _K. of S._ These staies and lets to pleasure, plague my thoughts, Forcing my greeuous wounds a new to bleed: Bur care that hath transported me so farre, Faire _Ida_ is disperst in thought of thee: Whose answere yeeldes me life, or breeds my death: Yond comes the messenger of weale or woe. _Enter Gnato._ _Ateukin_ What newes? _Ateu._ The adament o King will not be filde, 1100 But by it selfe, and beautie that exceeds, By some exeeding fauour must be wrought, _Ida_ is coy as yet, and doth repine, Obiecting marriage, honour, feare, and death, Shee’s holy, wise, and too precise for me. _K. of S._ Are these thy fruites of wits, thy sight in Art? Thine eloquence? thy pollicie? thy drift? To mocke thy Prince, thẽ catiue packe thee hence, And let me die deuoured in my loue. _Ateu._ Good Lord how rage gainsayeth reasons power, 1110 My deare, my gracious, and beloued Prince, The essence of my sute, my God on earth, Sit downe and rest your selfe, appease your wrath, Least with a frowne yee wound me to the death: Oh that I were included in my graue, That eyther now to saue my Princes life, Must counsell crueltie, or loose my King. _K. of S._ Why sirrha, is there meanes to mooue her minde? _Ateu._ Oh should I not offend my royall liege. _K. of S._ Tell all, spare nought, so I may gaine my loue. 1120 _Ateu._ Alasse my soule why art thou torne in twaine, For feare thou talke a thing that should displease? _K. of S._ Tut, speake what so thou wilt I pardon thee.