Duke. Sure 'twas the hand of heaven, for his contempt Of his poore creatures.—But what writs are those?
Hat. Commissions (if it please your grace,) for glasse, For yron Mines, and other needful things.
Duke. Our selfe invested in the government, The Cities care shall lie upon your care.
Hat. Alfred our brother may awaite your grace In Saxony, so please you to command.
Duke. We are now but three, and lately have bin seven,
We have cause to love each other; for my part,
Betweene you both we give a brothers heart.
Here or at Saxonie, command at pleasure;
I weare the corronet, be yours the treasure.
Al. We thanke our brother.
Duke. Where's my sonne Fredericke?
Enter Fredericke with a glove.
Fre. Father, the state of Meath desire your grace To take the paines to passe unto the Senate.
Duke. What glove is that, son Fred., in your hand?