Your holiest charges, and the Churches power,
To temper his hot spirit, and disperse
The cruelty and the bloud I know his hand175
Will showre upon our heads, if you put not
Your finger to the storme, and hold it up,
As my deare servant here must doe with Monsieur.
Buss. Ile sooth his plots, and strow my hate with smiles,
Till all at once the close mines of my heart180
Rise at full date, and rush into his bloud:
Ile bind his arme in silk, and rub his flesh