Mat. They are thine, my Edith, as for me, my own;
For thou well know'st, if blood shed of the best
Should cool and be forgotten, who would fear
To shed blood still? or where, alas, were then
The endless love we owe to worthy men?
Ed. Love of the worthiest ever bless your highness. [Exe.
[Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.]
Enter Rollo with a glass, Aubrey, and Servants.
Rol. I never studied my glass till now,
It is exceeding well; now leave me; Cousin,
How takes your eye the object?
Aub. I have learn'd
So much Sir of the Courtier, as to say
Your person does become your habit;
But being called unto it by a noble War,
Would grace an armour better.
Rol. You are still
For that great Art of which you are the Master;
Yet I must tell you, that to the encounters
We oft attempt, arm'd only thus, we bring
As troubled blood, fears mixt with flatt'ring hopes,
The danger in the service too as great,
As when we are to charge quite through and through
The body of an Army.
Aub. I'le not argue
How you may rank the dangers, but will die in't,
The ends which they arrive at, are as distant
In every circumstance, as far as honour
Is from shame and repentance.
Rol. You are sowr?