Part 24

Mons. Thou dream'st awake: object in th'empty aire!

Buss. Worthy the browes of Titan, worth his chaire.

Mons. Pray thee, what mean'st thou?

Buss. See you not a crowne 395 Empalethe forehead of the great King Monsieur?

Mons. O, fie upon thee!

Buss. Prince, that is the subject Of all these your retir'd and sole discourses.

Mons. Wilt thou not leave that wrongfull supposition?

Buss. Why wrongfull to suppose the doubtlesse right 400 To the succession worth the thinking on?

Mons. Well, leave these jests! how I am over-joyed With thy wish'd presence, and how fit thou com'st, For, of mine honour, I was sending for thee.

Buss. To what end?

Mons. Onely for thy company, 405 Which I have still in thought; but that's no payment On thy part made with personall appearance. Thy absence so long suffered oftentimes Put me in some little doubt thou do'st not love me. Wilt thou doe one thing therefore now sincerely? 410

Buss. I, any thing--but killing of the King.

Mons. Still in that discord, and ill taken note? How most unseasonable thou playest the cucko, In this thy fall of friendship!

Buss. Then doe not doubt That there is any act within my nerves, 415 But killing of the King, that is not yours.

Mons. I will not then; to prove which, by my love Shewne to thy vertues, and by all fruits else Already sprung from that still flourishing tree, With whatsoever may hereafter spring, 420 I charge thee utter (even with all the freedome Both of thy noble nature and thy friendship) The full and plaine state of me in thy thoughts.

Buss. What, utter plainly what I think of you?

Mons. Plaine as truth. 425

Buss. Why this swims quite against the stream of greatnes: Great men would rather heare their flatteries, And if they be not made fooles, are not wise.

Mons. I am no such great foole, and therefore charge thee Even from the root of thy free heart display mee. 430

Buss. Since you affect it in such serious termes, If your selfe first will tell me what you think As freely and as heartily of me, I'le be as open in my thoughts of you.

Mons. A bargain, of mine honour! and make this, 435 That prove we in our full dissection Never so foule, live still the sounder friends.

Buss. What else, sir? come, pay me home, ile bide it bravely.

Mons. I will, I sweare. I think thee, then, a man That dares as much as a wilde horse or tyger, 440 As headstrong and as bloody; and to feed The ravenous wolfe of thy most caniball valour (Rather than not employ it) thou would'st turne Hackster to any whore, slave to a Jew, Or English usurer, to force possessions 445 (And cut mens throats) of morgaged estates; Or thou would'st tire thee like a tinkers strumpet, And murther market folks; quarrell with sheepe, And runne as mad as Ajax; serve a butcher; Doe any thing but killing of the King. 450 That in thy valour th'art like other naturalls That have strange gifts in nature, but no soule Diffus'd quite through, to make them of a peece, But stop at humours, that are more absurd, Childish and villanous than that hackster, whore, 455 Slave, cut-throat, tinkers bitch, compar'd before; And in those humours would'st envie, betray, Slander, blaspheme, change each houre a religion, Doe any thing, but killing of the King: That in thy valour (which is still the dunghill, 460 To which hath reference all filth in thy house) Th'art more ridiculous and vaine-glorious Than any mountibank, and impudent Than any painted bawd; which not to sooth, And glorifie thee like a Jupiter Hammon, 465 Thou eat'st thy heart in vinegar, and thy gall Turns all thy blood to poyson, which is cause Of that toad-poole that stands in thy complexion, And makes thee with a cold and earthy moisture, (Which is the damme of putrifaction) 470 As plague to thy damn'd pride, rot as thou liv'st: To study calumnies and treacheries; To thy friends slaughters like a scrich-owle sing, And to all mischiefes--but to kill the King.

Buss. So! have you said?

Mons. How thinkest thou? Doe I flatter? 475 Speak I not like a trusty friend to thee?

Buss. That ever any man was blest withall. So here's for me! I think you are (at worst) No devill, since y'are like to be no King; Of which with any friend of yours Ile lay 480 This poore stillado here gainst all the starres, I, and 'gainst all your treacheries, which are more: That you did never good, but to doe ill, But ill of all sorts, free and for it selfe: That (like a murthering peece making lanes in armies, 485 The first man of a rank, the whole rank falling) If you have wrong'd one man, you are so farre From making him amends that all his race, Friends, and associates fall into your chace: That y'are for perjuries the very prince 490 Of all intelligencers; and your voice Is like an easterne winde, that, where it flies, Knits nets of catterpillars, with which you catch The prime of all the fruits the kingdome yeelds: That your politicall head is the curst fount 495 Of all the violence, rapine, cruelty, Tyrannie, & atheisme flowing through the realme: That y'ave a tongue so scandalous, 'twill cut The purest christall, and a breath that will Kill to that wall a spider; you will jest 500 With God, and your soule to the Devill tender For lust; kisse horror, and with death engender: That your foule body is a Lernean fenne Of all the maladies breeding in all men: That you are utterly without a soule; 505 And for your life, the thred of that was spunne When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it, Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule Defil'd, and crown'd with vertues forced soule: 510 And lastly (which I must for gratitude Ever remember) that of all my height And dearest life you are the onely spring, Onely in royall hope to kill the King.

Mons. Why, now I see thou lov'st me! come to the banquet! Exeunt. 515

Finis Actus Tertii.