Rol. Sir, first know you,
In praise of your pure Oratory that rais'd you,
That when the people, who I know by this
Are rais'd out of their rests, and hastening hither
To witness what is done here, are arrived
With our Latorch, that you, ex tempore,
Shall fashion an Oration to acquit
And justifie this forced fact of mine;
Or for the proud refusal lose your head.
Gis. I fashion an Oration to acquit you?
Sir, know you then, that 'tis a thing less easie
To excuse a parricide than to commit it.
Rol. I do not wish you, Sir, to excuse me,
But to accuse my Brother, as the cause
Of his own slaughter by attempting mine.
Gis. Not for the World, I should pour blood on blood;
It were another murther to accuse
Him that fell innocent.
Rol. Away with him, hence, hail him straight to execution.
Aub. Far flye such rigour, your amendful hand.
Rol. He perishes with him that speaks for him;
Guard do your office on him, on your lives pain.
Gis. Tyrant, 'twill haste thy own death.
Rol. Let it wing it,
He threatens me, Villains tear him piece-meal hence.
Guard. Avant Sir.