NEMO.
What, those three caitiffs, long ago condemn'd?
Love, Lucre, Conscience? well-deserving death,
Being corrupt with all contagion:
The spotted ladies of that stately town?
POMP.
Love, Lucre, Conscience, we of thee desire,
Which in thyself hast all perfection,
Accomplished with all integrity,
And needest no help to do what pleaseth thee;
Which holdest fame and fortune both thy slaves,
And dost compel the Destinies draw the coach,
To thee we sue, sith power thou hast thereto,
To set those ladies at their liberty.
PLEASURE.
At liberty, thou spotless magistrate,
That of the cause dost carry all regard,
Careless of bribes, of birth and parentage,
Because thyself art only born to bliss.
Bless us so much, that lords of London are,
That those three ladies, born and bred with us,
May by our suits release of thraldom find.
NEMO.
Release, my lords! why seek ye their release,
That have perpetual prison for their doom?
POLICY.
But Nemo can from thence redeem them all.
NEMO.
Their deeds were cause, not Nemo, of their thrall.
POMP.
Yet Nemo was the judge that sentence gave.
NEMO.
But Nemo never spill'd, whom he could save.
PLEASURE.
Thou from perpetual prison may'st revoke.
POLICY.
Death hath no power 'gainst him to give a stroke.