Sham. Oh my Lord,
Love would appear too bold, and rude from me,
Honour and admiration are her rights,
Her goodness is my Saint, my Lord.
Duke. I see,
Y'are both too modest to bestow your selves:
I'll save that virtue still, 'tis but my pains: come,
It shall be so.
Sham. This gift does but set forth my poverty.
La. Sir, that which you complain of, is my riches.
Enter Shamont's brother the Soldier.
Duke. Soldier, now every noise sounds peace, th'art welcome.
Sol. Sir, my repentance sues for your blest favour,
Which once obtain'd, no injury shall lose it;
I'll suffer mightier wrongs.
Duke. Rise, lov'd and pardon'd:
For where Hope fail'd, nay Art it self resign'd,
Thou'st wrought that cure, which skill could never find;
Nor did there cease, but to our peace extend;
Never could wrongs boast of a nobler end. [Exeunt.