Rol. Nay my good Brother knows I am too patient.
Lat. Why should your grace think him a poysoner?
Has he no more respect to piety?
And but he has by oath ty'd up his fury
Who durst but think that thought?
Aub. Away thou firebrand.
Lat. If men of his sort, of his power, and place
The eldest son in honour to this Dukedom.
Bald. For shame contain thy tongue, thy poysonous to[n]gue
That with her burning venome will infect all,
And once more blow a wilde fire through the Dukedom.
Gis. Latorch, if thou be'st honest, or a man,
Contain thy self.
Aub. Go to, no more, by Heaven
You'le find y'have plai'd the fool else, not a word more.
Sop. Prethee sweet son.
Rol. Let him alone sweet Mother, and my Lords
To make you understand how much I honour
This sacred peace, and next my innocence,
And to avoid all further difference
Discourse may draw on to a way of danger
I quit my place, and take my leave for this night,
Wishing a general joy may dwell among you.
Aub. Shall we wait on your grace?