Beau. Sir, I am yours. Oh if my teares proue true, (Exit Daug
Fate hath wrong’d loue, and will destroy me too.
Enter Romont keeper
Rom. Sent you for me, sir?
Roch. Yes.
Rom. Your Lordships pleasure? [155]
Roch. Keeper, this prisoner I will see forth comming
Vpon my word—Sit downe good Colonell. (Exit keeper.
Why I did wish you hither, noble sir,
Is to aduise you from this yron carriage,
Which, so affected, Romont, you weare, [160]
To pity and to counsell yee submit
With expedition to the great Nouall:
Recant your sterne contempt, and slight neglect
Of the whole Court, and him, and opportunity,
Or you will vndergoe a heauy censure [165]
In publique very shortly.
Rom. Hum hum: reuerend sir,
I haue obseru’d you, and doe know you well,
And am now more affraid you know not me,
By wishing my submission to Nouall,
Then I can be of all the bellowing mouthes [170]
That waite vpon him to pronounce the censure,
Could it determine me torments, and shame.
Submit, and craue forgiuenesse of a beast?
Tis true, this bile of state weares purple Tissue.
Is high fed, proud: so is his Lordships horse, [175]
And beares as rich Caparisons. I know,
This Elephant carries on his back not onely
Towres, Castles, but the ponderous republique,
And neuer stoops for’t, with his strong breath trunk
Snuffes others titles, Lordships, Offices, [180]
Wealth, bribes, and lyues, vnder his rauenous iawes.
Whats this vnto my freedome? I dare dye;
And therefore aske this Cammell, if these blessings
(For so they would be vnderstood by a man)
But mollifie one rudenesse in his nature, [185]
Sweeten the eager relish of the law,
At whose great helme he sits: helps he the poore
In a iust businesse? nay, does he not crosse
Euery deserued souldier and scholler,
As if when nature made him, she had made [190]
The generall Antipathy of all vertue?
How sauagely, and blasphemously hee spake
Touching the Generall, the graue Generall dead,
I must weepe when I thinke on’t.
Roch. Sir
Rom. My Lord,
I am not stubborne, I can melt, you see, [195]
And prize a vertue better then my life:
For though I be not learnd, I euer lou’d
That holy Mother of all issues, good,
Whose white hand (for a Scepter) holds a File
To pollish roughest customes, and in you [200]
She has her right: see, I am calme as sleepe,
But when I thinke of the grosse iniuries
The godlesse wrong done, to my Generall dead,
I raue indeed, and could eate this Nouall
A lsoule-esse Dromodary.
Roch. Oh bee temperate, [205]
Sir, though I would perswade, I’le not constraine:
Each mans opinion freely is his owne,
Concerning any thing or any body,
Be it right or wrong, tis at the Iudges perill.