Dio. But I am no Emperour:
Why do you fool me thus, and make me follow
Your flattering expectation hour by hour?
Rise early, and sleep late? to feed your appetites,
Forget my Trade, my Arms? forsake mine honour,
Labour and sweat to arrive at a base memory?
Oppose my self to hazards of all sorts,
Only to win the barbarous name of Butcher?
Del. Son, you are wise.
Dio. But you are cunning, Mother;
And with that Cunning, and the faith I give you,
Ye lead me blindly to no end, no honour:
You find ye are daily fed, you take no labour;
Your family at ease, they know no market,
And therefore to maintain this, you speak darkly,
As darkly still ye nourish it, whilst I,
Being a credulous and obsequious Coxcomb,
Hunt daily, and sweat hourly, to find out
To clear your mystery; kill Boar on Boar,
And make your Spits and Pots bow with my Bounties;
Yet I still poorer, further still—
Del. Be provident,
And tempt not the gods dooms; stop not the glory
They are ready to fix on ye. Ye are a fool then;
Chearful and grateful takers, the gods love,
And such as wait their pleasures with full hopes;
The doubtful and distrustful man Heaven frowns at.
What I have told you by my inspiration,
I tell ye once again, must, and shall find ye.
Dio. But when? or how?
Del. Cum Aprum interfeceris.
Dio. I have kill'd many.
Del. Not the Boar they point ye;
Nor must I reveal further, till you clear it.
The lots of glorious men are wrapt in mysteries,
And so deliver'd; common and slight Creatures,
That have their ends as open as their actions,
Easie and open fortunes follow.
Max. I shall try
How deep your inspiration lies hid in ye,
And whether your brave spirit have a buckler
To keep this arrow off, I'll make you smoke else.
Dio. Knowing my fortune so precisely, punctually,
And that it must fall without contradiction,
Being a stranger, of no tye unto ye,
Methinks you should be studied in your own,
In your own destiny, methinks, most perfect,
And every hour, and every minute, Mother,
So great a care should Heaven have of her Ministers;
Methinks your fortunes both ways should appear to ye,
Both to avoid and take. Can the Stars now,
And all those influences you receive into you,
Or secret inspirations ye make shew of,
If an hard fortune hung, and were now ready
To pour it self upon your life, deliver ye?
Can they now say, take heed?