Lat. It is to whosoever mislikes of the Dukes courses.
Aub. I! is't so? at your stateward, Sir?
Lat. I'm sworn to hear nothing may prejudice the Prince.
Aub. Why do you? or have you, ha?
Lat. I cannot tell, mens hearts shew in their words sometimes.
Aub. I ever thought thee
Knave of the Chamber, art thou the Spye too?
Lat. A watchman for the State, and one that's known,
Sir, to be rightly affected.
Aub. Bawd of the State;
No less than of thy masters lusts. I now
See nothing can redeem thee; dost thou mention
Affection, or a Heart, that ne'r hadst any?
Knowst not to love or hate, but by the State,
As thy Prince does't before thee? that dost never
Wear thy own face, but put'st on his, and gather'st
Baits for his Ears: liv'st wholly at his beck,
And e're thou dar'st utter a thought's thine own,
Must expect his; creep'st forth and wad'st into him
As if thou wert to pass a Ford, there proving
Yet if thy tongue may step on safely or no;
Then bring'st his vertue asleep, and stay'st the wheel
Both of his reason and judgment, that they move not,
Whit'st over all his vices; and at last
Dost draw a Cloud of words before his eyes,
Till he can neither see thee nor himself?
Wretch, I dare give him honest counsels, I,
And love him while I tell him truth; old Aubrey
Dares goe the straightest way, which still's the shortest,
Walk on the thorns thou scatter'st, Parasite,
And tread 'em into nothing: and if thou
Then let'st a look fall, of the least dislike,
I'll rip thy Crown up with my Sword at height,
And pluck thy skin over thy face, in sight
Of him thou flatter'st; unto thee I speak it,
Slave, against whom all Laws should now conspire,
And every Creature that hath sense, be arm'd,
As 'gainst the common Enemy of Mankind;
That sleep'st within thy Masters Ear, and whisper'st
'Tis better for him to be fear'd than lov'd;
Bid'st him trust no mans friendship, spare no blood
That may secure him: 'tis no cruelty
That hath a specious end; for Soveraignty
Break all the Laws of kind; if it succeed,
An honest, noble, and praise-worthy deed;
While he that takes thy poysons in, shall feel
Their virulent workings in a point of time,
When no Repentance can bring aid, but all
His spirits shall melt, with what his Conscience burn'd,
And dying in flatterers arms, shall fall unmourn'd.
There's matter for you now.
Lat. My Lord, this makes not for loving of my Master.
Aub. Loving? no;
They hate ill Princes most that make them so.