Cra. Why Sir, the Kingdomes his, and no man now
Can come to Corinth or from Corinth go
Without his Licence; he puts up the tithes
Of every office through Achaia;
From Courtier to the Carter hold of him:
Our Lands, our Liberties, nay very Lives
Are shut up in his Closet, and let loose
But at his pleasure; Books, and all discourse
Have now no Patron, nor direction,
But glorified Euphanes: our Cups are guilty
That quench our thirsts, if not unto his health;
Oh, I could eat my heart, and fling away
My very Soul for anguish: gods, nor men
Should tollerate such disproportion.
The. And yet is he belov'd: whether't be virtue,
Or seeming virtue which he makes the cloak
To his ambition.
Cra. Be it which it will:
Your Highness is too tame, your eyes too film'd
To see this, and sit still: the Lion should not
Tremble to hear the bellowing of the Bull;
Nature excuse me, though he be my Brother,
You are my Countries Father, therefore mine:
One parallel line of Love I bend on him,
All lines of love and duty meet in you
As in their Center: therefore hear, and weigh
What I shall speak: You know the Queen your Mother
Did, from a private state your Father raise,
So all your Royalty you hold from her;
She is older than she was, therefore more doating,
And what know we but blindness of her love
(That hath from underneath the foot of fortune
Set even Euphanes foot, on fortunes head)
Will take him by the hand, and cry, Leap now
Into my bed; 'tis but a trick of age;
Nothing impossible.
The. What do you infer on this?
Cra. Your pardon Sir:
With reverence to the Queen; yet why should I
Fear to speak plain what pointeth to your good?
A good old Widow is a hungry thing,
(I speak of other Widows, not of Queens.)
The. Speak to thy purpose.
Cra. I approach it: Sir,
Should young Euphanes claspe the Kingdome thus,
And please the good old Lady some one night;
What might not she be wrought to put on you,
Quite to supplant your birth? neither is she
Past children as I take it.
The. Crates, Thou shak'st me;
Thou, that dost hate thy Brother for my love,
In my love find one; henceforth be my brother:
This Gyant I will fell beneath the earth;
I will shine out, and melt his artful wings:
Euphanes, from my mothers sea of favors
Spreads like a River, and runs calmly on,
Secure yet from my stormes; like a young pine
He grows up planted under a fair Oake,
Whose strong large branches yet do's shelter him,
And every Traveller admires his beauty;
But like a wind, I'l work into his crancks,
Trouble his stream, and drown all Vessels that
Ride on his Greatness: under my Mothers arms,
Like to a stealing tempest will I search,
And rend his root from her protection.
Cra. I, now Theanor speaks like Prince Theanor.
The. But how shall we provoke him to our snares?
He has a temper malice cannot move
To exceed the bounds of judgement; he is so wise,
That we can pick no cause to affront him.