All writ in golden Letters and cut so even
As if some hand had hither reacht from Heaven
To print this Paper.
Enter Epidophorus.
Epi. Come, you must to the King.
Eugen. I am so laden with Irons I scarce can goe.
Epi. Wyer-whips shall drive you,
The King is counsell'd for his health to bath him
In the warme blood of Christians; and you, I thinke,
Must give him ease.
Eugen. Willingly; my fetters Hang now, methinks, like feathers at my heeles. On, any whither; I can runne, sir.
Epi. Can you? not very farre, I feare.
Eugen. No windes my Faith shake, nor rock split in sunder: The poore ship's tost here, my strong Anchor's yonder.
[Exeunt.