Poet. Opinion.
Onae. 'Las I have got too much of that already.
Opinion is my Evidence, Judge and Jury;
Mine owne guilt and opinion now condemne me.
I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make
Ten Muses of your nine, I sweare, for this;
Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold;
I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold:
So fare thou well.
Poet. Our pen shall honour you. [Exit.
Enter Cornego.
Cor. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Feaver.
Onae. What shall I doe, Cornego? for this Poet
Has fill'd me with a fury: I could write
Strange Satyrs now against Adulterers
And Marriage-breakers.
Cor. I beleeve you, Madam.—But here comes your Vncle.
Enter Medina, Alanzo, Carlo, Alba, Sebastian, Daenia.
Med. Where's our Neece?
Turne your braines round and recollect your spirits,
And see your Noble friends and kinsmen ready
To pay revenge his due.
Onae. That word Revenge
Startles my sleepy Soule, now thoroughly wakend
By the fresh object of my haplesse childe
Whose wrongs reach beyond mine.