And, noble Prince, We now confesse Our errour:
But heauen be prais’d that you haue both escap’d
The tyrannie of Our vniust decree.
Aur. What happie accident preseru’d your liues?
Whose was the proiect? Was it thine, old man?
Lor. Madam, ’twas mine: Those that I could not saue
By eloquence, by policie I haue.
Kin. Worthie Atlanta, thou hast merited
Beyond all imitation. We are made
Too poore to gratifie thy high deserts.