Brun. Oh that I had the Magick to transforme you
Into the shape of such, that your own hounds
Might tear you peece-meale; Are you so stupid?
No word of comfort? have I fed you mothers
From my excess of moysture, with such cost
And can you yeild no other retribution,
But to devour your maker, pandar, sponge,
Impoysoner, all grown barren?
Prota. You your self
That are our mover, and for whom alone
We live, have fail'd your self in giving way
To the reconcilement of your [sonnes].
Lecure. Which if
You had prevented, or would teach us how
They might again be sever'd, we could easily
Remove all other hind'rances that stop
The passage of your pleasures.
Baud. And for me,
If I fail in my office to provide you
Fresh delicat[e]s, hang me.
Brun. Oh you are dull, and find not
The cause of my vexation; Their reconcilement
Is a mock castle built upon the sand
By children, which when I am pleas'd to o'rethrow,
I can with ease spurn down.
Lecure. If so, from whence
Grows your affliction?
Brun. My grief comes along
With the new Queen, in whose grace all my power
Must suffer shipwrack: for me now,
That hitherto have kept the first, to know
A second place, or yeeld the least precedence
To any other ['s] death; To have my sleeps
Less enquir'd after, or my rising up
Saluted with less reverence, or my gates
Empty of suitors, or the Kings great favours
To pass through any hand but mine, or he
Himself to be directed by another,
Would be to me: doe you understand me, yet
No meanes to prevent this.
Prota. Fame gives her out
To be a woman of [a] chastity
Not to be wrought upon; and therefore Madam
For me, though I have pleas'd you, to attempt her
Were to no purpose.
Brun. Tush, some other way.
Baud. Faith I know none else, all my bringing up
Aim'd at no other learning.