My service and this letter to your Grace.
Arb.
From whom?
Gob.
From the rich Mine of vertue and beauty,
Your mournfull Sister.
Arb.
She is in prison, Gobrias, is she not?
Gob.
She is Sir, till your pleasure to enlarge her,
Which on my knees I beg. Oh 'tis not fit,
That all the sweetness of the world in one,
The youth and vertue that would tame wild Tygers,
And wilder people, that have known no manners,
Should live thus cloistred up; for your loves sake,
If there be any in that noble heart,
To her a wretched Lady, and forlorn,
Or for her love to you, which is as much
As nature and obedience ever gave,
Have pity on her beauties.
Arb.