Rol. I dare not break you, Latorch. [Ex. Rol. and Lat.
Ot. Oh Mother that your tenderness had eyes,
Discerning eyes, what would this man appear then?
The tale of Synon when he took upon him
To ruine Troy; with what a cloud of cunning
He hid his heart, nothing appearing outwards,
But came like innocence, and dropping pity,
Sighs that would sink a Navie, and had tales
Able to take the ears of Saints, belief too,
And what did all these? blew the fire to Ilium.
His crafty art (but more refin'd by study)
My Brother has put on: oh I could tell you
But for the reverence I bear to nature,
Things that would make your honest blood run backward.
Sop. You dare tell me?
Ot. Yes, in your private closet
Where I will presently attend you; rise
I am a little troubled, but 'twill off.
Sop. Is this the joy I look'd for?
Ot. All will mend,
Be not disturb'd dear Mother, I'le not fail you.
[Ex. Sop. and Otto.
Bald. I do not like this.
Aub. That is still in our powers,
But how to make it so that we may like it.
Bald. Beyond us ever; Latorch me thought was busie,
That fellow, if not lookt to narrowly, will do a suddain mischief.