Lid. He Sir, your humblest subject, I accuse Clarange
Of falshood in true friendship at the height;
We both were suiters to this Lady, both
Injoyn'd one pennance.
Clar. Trouble not the King
With an unnecessarie repetition
Of what the court's familiar with already.
Kin. Clarange?
Dor. With a shaven crown?
Olin. Most strange.
Clar. Look on thy rival, your late servant, Madam,
But now devoted to a better Mistris,
The Church, whose orders I have took upon me:
I here deliver up my interest to her;
And what was got with cunning as you thought,
I simply thus surrender: heretofore,
You did outstrip me in the race of friendship,
I am your equal now.
Dor. A suit soon ended.
Clar. And joyning thus your hands, I know both willing,
I may do in the Church my Friers Office
In marrying you.
Lid. The victory is yours, Sir.
King. It is a glorious one, and well sets of[f]
Our Scene of mercy; to the dead we tender
Our sorrow, to the living ample wishes
Of future happiness: 'tis a Kings duty
To prove himself a Father to his subjects:
And I shall hold it if this well succeed,
A meritorious, and praise worthy deed. [Exeunt.