Card. The King—'tis from the King I come.
Onae. A name I hate: Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.
Card. Heare what I speake.
Onae. Your language, breath'd from him, Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn'd.
Car. Is it such poyson?
Onae. Yes; and, were you christall,
What the King fills you with, wud make you breake.
You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare,
Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape;
Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity.
You should be the Court-Diall and direct
The King with constant motion; be ever beating
(Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart,
To make it sound cleere and to feele remorse:
You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience
Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave
For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him.
His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.
Car. I have rais'd up a scaffolding to save Both him and you from falling: doe but heare me.
Onae. Be dumbe for ever.
Car. Let your feares thus dye:
By all the sacred relliques of the Church
And by my holy orders, what I minister
Is even the spirit of health.
Onae. I'le drinke it downe into my soule at once.