Q.M. Poore painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune,
Why strew'st thou Sugar on that Bottel'd Spider,
Whose deadly Web ensnareth thee about?
Foole, foole, thou whet'st a Knife to kill thy selfe:
The day will come, that thou shalt wish for me,
To helpe thee curse this poysonous Bunch-backt Toade
Hast. False boding Woman, end thy frantick Curse,
Least to thy harme, thou moue our patience
Q.M. Foule shame vpon you, you haue all mou'd mine
Ri. Were you wel seru'd, you would be taught your duty
Q.M. To serue me well, you all should do me duty,
Teach me to be your Queene, and you my Subiects:
O serue me well, and teach your selues that duty
Dors. Dispute not with her, shee is lunaticke
Q.M. Peace Master Marquesse, you are malapert,
Your fire-new stampe of Honor is scarce currant.
O that your yong Nobility could iudge
What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable.
They that stand high, haue many blasts to shake them,
And if they fall, they dash themselues to peeces
Rich. Good counsaile marry, learne it, learne it Marquesse
Dor. It touches you my Lord, as much as me
Rich. I, and much more: but I was borne so high:
Our ayerie buildeth in the Cedars top,
And dallies with the winde, and scornes the Sunne