Thier. Mother,
You hear this and rejoyce in such a blessing
That payes to you so large a share of duty,
But fie no more, for as you hold a place
Nearer my heart than she, you must sit nearest
To all those graces, that are in the power
Of Majesty to bestow.
Brun. Which I'll provide,
Shall be short liv'd Lecure.
Lecure. I have it ready.
Brun. 'Tis well, wait on our cup.
Lecure. You honor me.
Thier. We are dull,
No object to provoke mirth.
Theod. Martell,
If you remember Sir, will grace your Feast,
With some thing that will yield matter of mirth,
Fit for no common view.
Thier. Touching Protaldye.
Theod. You have it.
Brun. What of him? I fear his baseness [aside.
In spight of all the titles that my favours
Have cloth'd him, which will make discovery
Of what is yet conceal'd.