Ferd. 'Tis true.
Duke. 'Tis very strange.
Ger. Why kneel you honest Master?
Ferd. My good Lord.
Ger. Dear Mother.
Duke. Rise, rise, all are friends: I owe ye
for all their boards: And wench, take thou the man
Whose life thou sav'dst; less cannot pay the merit.
How shall I part my kiss? I cannot: Let
One generally therefore joyn our cheeks.
A pen of Iron, and a leaf of Brass,
To keep this Story to Eternity:
And a Promethean Wit. Oh sacred Love,
Nor chance, nor death can thy firm truth remove. [Exeunt.
King. Now Isabella. [Flourish.
Isab. This can true Love do.
I joy they all so happily are pleas'd:
The Ladies and the Brothers must triumph.
King. They do:
For Cupid scorns but t' have his triumph too. [Flourish.
The TRIUMPH.