Aub. Are you mad, to offer at more blood, and make your self
More horrid to your people? I'le proclaim,
It is not as your instrument will publish.
Rol. Do, and take that along with you—so nimble!
Resign my sword, and dare not for thy soul
To offer what thou insolently threatnest;
One word, proclaiming cross to what Latorch
Hath in Commission, and intends to publish.
Aub. Well, Sir, not for your threats, but for your good,
Since more hurt to you would more hurt your Country,
And that you must make Vertue of the need
That now compels you, I'll consent as far
As silence argues to your will proclaimed:
And since no more Sons of your Princely Father
Survive to rule but you, and that I wish
You should rule like your Father, with the love
And zeal of all your Subjects; this foul slaughter
That now you have committed made ashamed
With that fair blessing, that in place of plagues,
Heaven trys our mending disposition with:
Take here your sword, which now use like a Prince,
And no more like a Tyrant.
Rol. This sounds well, live and be gracious with us.
Gis. and Bal. Oh Lord Aubrey.
Mat. He flatter thus?
Sop. He temporizes fitly.
Rol. Wonder invades me; do you two think much,
That he thus wisely, and with need consents
To what I authour for your Countries good?
You being my Tutor, you my Chancellour.
Gis. Your Chancellour is not your Flatterer, Sir.
Bal. Nor is it your Tutors part to shield such doctrine.