Pont. Sir.
Char. Peace, O peace, this sceane is wholy mine.
What weepe ye, souldiers? Blanch not, Romont weepes. [75]
Ha, let me see, my miracle is eas’d,
The iaylors and the creditors do weepe;
Euen they that make vs weepe, do weepe themselues.
Be these thy bodies balme: these and thy vertue
Keepe thy fame euer odoriferous, [80]
Whilst the great, proud, rich, vndeseruing man,
Aliue stinkes in his vices, and being vanish’d,
The golden calfe that was an Idoll dect
With marble pillars Iet, and Porphyrie,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, [85]
Though wrapt in lead, spice, Searecloth and perfume
1 Cred. Sir.
Char. What! Away for shame: you prophane rogues
Must not be mingled with these holy reliques:
This is a Sacrifice, our showre shall crowne [90]
His sepulcher with Oliue, Myrrh and Bayes
The plants of peace, of sorrow, victorie,
Your teares would spring but weedes.
1 Cred. Would they not so?
Wee’ll keepe them to stop bottles then:
Rom. No; keepe ’em
For your owne sins, you Rogues, till you repent: [95]
You’ll dye else and be damn’d.
2 Cred. Damn’d, ha! ha, ha.
Rom. Laugh yee?
3 Cred. Yes faith, Sir, weel’d be very glad
To please you eyther way.
1 Cred. Y’are ne’re content,
Crying nor laughing.