But in a loyall Subiect, neuer King
More blest then we are: and the grace we owe,
Though farre too poore to quittance, shall make known,
Thy loue and merit. Now we can discerne
Our friends from flatt’rers. Nicanor, as for you,
But that this houre is sacred vnto ioy,
Thy life should pay the ransome of thy guilt.
Nic. Your Graces pardon. ’Twas not pride of state,
But her disdaine, that first inspir’d in me
This hope of Soueraigntie.