[Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.]
Enter at one door Rugio, and Frier Marco, at the other door Sorano, with a little glass viol.
Rug. What ails this piece of mischief to look sad?
He seems to weep too.
Mar. Something is a hatching,
And of some bloody nature too, Lord Rugio,
This Crocodile mourns thus cunningly.
Sor. Hail holy Father,
And good day to the good Lord Rugio,
How fares the sad Prince I beseech ye Sir?
Rug. 'Tis like you know, you need not ask that question,
You have your eyes and watches on his miseries
As near as ours, I would they were as tender.
Mar. Can you do him good? as the King and you appointed him,
So he is still, as you desir'd I think too,
For every day he is worse (Heaven pardon all)
Put off your sorrow, you may laugh now Lord,
He cannot last long to disturb your Master,
You have done worthy service to his Brother,
And he most memorable love.
Sor. You do not know Sir
With what remorse I ask, nor with what weariness
I groan and bow under this load of honour,
And how my soul sighs for the beastly services,
I have done his pleasures, these be witness with me,
And from your piety believe me Father,
I would as willingly unclothe my self
Of title, that becomes me not I know;
Good men, and great names best agree together;
Cast off the glorious favours, and the trappings
Of sound and honour, wealth and promises,
His wanton pleasures have flung on my weakness,
And chuse to serve my countries cause and vertues,
Poorly and honestly, and redeem my ruines,
As I would hope remission of my mischiefs.
Rug. Old and experienc'd men, my Lord Sorano,
Are not so quickly caught with gilt hypocrisie,
You pull your claws in now and fawn upon us,
As lyons do to intice poor foolish beasts;
And beasts we should be too if we believ'd ye,
Go exercise your Art.
Sor. For Heaven sake scorn me not,
Nor adde more Hell to my afflicted soul
Than I feel here; as you are honourable,
As you are charitable look gently on me,
I will no more to Court, be no more Devil,
I know I must be hated even of him
That was my Love now, and the more he loves me
For his foul ends, when they shall once appear to him,
Muster before his conscience and accuse him,
The fouler and the more falls his displeasure,
Princes are fading things, so are their favours.