Agenor. O my conscience, there's no treason in my dublet, if there be, my elbows will discover it, they are out.
Dor. Faith, and all the harm that I can find in mine is, that they are not pay'd for; let him make what he can of that, so he discharge that. Come, let's go. [Exeunt.
Enter Bach, Leontius, Tella.
Bac. And you shall find Sir what [a] blessing heaven gave you in such a son.
Le. Pray gods, I may, Let's walk & change our subject.
Bac. O Sir, can any thing come sweeter to you, or strike a deeper joy into your heart than your son's virtue?
Leon. I allow his virtues: but 'tis not handsome thus to feed my self with such moderate praises of mine own.
Bac. The subject of our comendations is it self grown so infinite in goodness, that all the glory we can lay upon it, though we should open volumes of his praises, is a mere modesty in his expression, and shews him lame still, like an ill wrought peece wanting proportion.
Leo. Yet still he is a man, and subject still to more inordinate vices, than our love can give him blessing.
Bac. Else he were a god: yet so near as he is, he comes to heaven, that we may see so far as flesh can point us things only worthy them, and only these in all his actions.