n._ Shift for your self you are dead else,
You have kill'd the Governou[r]s Nephew.

_Page._ Raise the streets there.

_Alon._ If once you are beset you cannot scape,
Will you betray your self?

_Rut_. Undone for ever. [_Exit_ Rut. _and_ Alonzo.

_Enter_ Officers.

_1 Off_. Who makes this out-cry?

_Page_. O my Lord is murdered;
This way he took, make after him,
Help help there. [_Exit_ Page.

_2 Offi_. 'Tis _Don Duarte_.

_1 Offi_. Pride has got a fall,
He was still in quarrels, scorn'd us Peace-makers,
And all our Bill-authority, now h'as paid for't.
You ha' met with your match Sir now, bring off his body
And bear it to the Governour. Some pursue
The murderer; yet if he scape, it skills not;
Were I a Prince, I would reward him for't,
He has rid the City of a turbulent beast,
There's few will pity him: but for his Mother
I truly grieve indeed, she's a good Lady. [_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ Guiomar _and_ Servants.

_Gui_. He's not i'th' house?

_Ser. No Madam.

_Gui_. Haste and seek him,
Go all and every where, Pie not to bed
Till you return him, take away the lights too,
The Moon lends me too much, to find my fears
And those devotions I am to pay
Are written in my heart, not in this book, [_Kneel_.
And I shall read them there without a Taper. [_Ex_. Ser.

_Enter_ Rutilio.

_Rut_. I am pursued; all the Ports are stopt too;
Not any hope to escape, behind, before me,
On either side I am beset, cursed fortune
My enemie on the Sea, and on the Land too,
Redeem'd from one affliction to another:
Would I had made the greedy waves my tomb
And dyed obscure, and innocent, not as Nero
Smear'd o're with blood. Whither have my fears brought me?
I am got into a house, the doors all open,
This, by the largeness of the room, the hangings,
And other rich adornments, glistring through
The sable masque of night, sayes it belongs
To one of means and rank: no servant stirring?
Murmur nor whisper?

_Guio._ Who's that?

_Rut._ By the voice,
This is a woman.

_Guio._ _Stephana, Jaspe, Julia,_
Who waits there?

_Rut._ 'Tis the Lady of the house,
I'le flie to her protection.

_Guio._ Speak, what are you?

_Rut._ Of all that ever breath'd, a man most wretched.

_Guio._ I am sure you are a man of most ill manners,
You could not with so little reverence else
Press to my private chamber. Whither would you,
Or what do you seek for?

_Rut._ Gracious woman hear me;
I am a stranger, and