Fred. These are no brothers, they are flatterers,
Contrary to themselves in their owne speech.
You that doe love the honour of your Prince,
The care and long life of my father,
The hereditary right deriv'd to me,
Your countries Welfare, and your owne renowne,
Lend me your hands to plucke her from the throne.
Valen. Princes, forbeare, I doe not seeke the match;
It is his highnesse pleasure I sit here,
And if he love me 'tis no fault of mine.
Behoves me to be thankefull to his Grace,
And strive in virtue to deserve this place.
Duke. Thou speak'st too mildly to these hare braind youthes. He that presumes to plucke her from the chaire Dyes in the attempt, this sword shall end all care.
Fred. Why, shee's notorious.
Duke. But she will amend.
Fred. 'Tis too farre growne to have a happy end.
Duke. The dangerous the disease, greater's the cure.
Fred. Princes may seeke renowne by wayes more sure, Shee is dishonest.
Duke. Honestie's unseene; Shee's faire, and therefore fit to be a Queene.
Fred. But vertue is to be preferd ere lust.