Lat. Now y'are a man, Sir.
Rol. Otto, thou shewst my winding sheet before me,
Which e're I put it on, like Heavens blest fire
In my descent I'le make it blush in blood;
A Crown, A Crown, Oh sacred Rule, now fire me,
Nor shall the pity of thy youth, false Brother,
Although a thousand Virgins kneel before me,
And every dropping eye a court of mercy,
The same blood with me, nor the reverence
Due to my mothers blest womb that bred us,
Redeem thee from my doubts: thou art a wolf here,
Fed with my fears, and I must cut thee from me:
A Crown, A Crown; Oh sacred Rule, now fire me:
No safety else.
Lat. But be not too much stir'd, Sir, nor too high
In your execution: swallowing waters
Run deep and silent, till they are satisfied,
And smile in thousand Curles, to guild their craft;
Let your sword sleep, and let my two edg'd wit work,
This happy feast, the full joy of your friendships
Shall be his last.
Rol. How, my Latorch?
Lat. Why thus, Sir;
I'le presently go dive into the Officers
That minister at Table: gold and goodness,
With promise upon promise, and time necessary,
I'le pour into them.
Rol. Canst thou do it neatly?
Lat. Let me alone, and such a bait it shall be,
Shall take off all suspicion.
Rol. Go, and prosper.
Lat. Walk in then, and your smoothest face put on Sir.
[Exeunt.