_Raph_. My _Palestra_, art thou safe?
Beefore I give due thankes to this good man,
Which tyme shall paye in all pluralityes,
Oh shewe mee but that monster of mankind
And shame of men on whom to bee revendgd!

_Mild_. The storme at sea was not more terrible
Then this the land now threatens; againe undoone,
Over and over wretched!

_Clowne_. See the limbe
Of his ould syre the Devill.

_Raph_. Perjured slave!
Perfidious, but that I abhore to take
The hangman's office from him, this should open
A doore by which thy black soule should fly out
Unto assured damnation.

_Tread_. Bee more patient;
Proceede with him after a legal course,
And bee not sweyde by fury.

_Raph_. Well advys'd:
What can thy false toonge pleide in thy excuse,
Thou volume of all vyces?

_Mild_. Why, what not?

_Raph_. Is thy hart sear'd, thy browe made impudent,
And all thy malefactions crownd[110] with lyes
Against just testates and apparent truthes?
When I had payde full ransom for this pryze,
Why didst thou beare her hence?

_Mild_. I did not doo't,--
These bee my witnes; have I borne her hence
When I have brought her to thee?

_Raph_. Thy bawdes rhethorick
Shall not excuse thee thus. Frends guarde him safe.

_Clowne_. We will see his fooles coate guarded,[111] ey and reguarded
too from slipping out of our fingers.

_Godf_.[112] Weel finde amongst us more then ... him; fower elbowes
elbowe him off all sydes, gentlemen. It shall appeare beefore hee parts
with us that hee hathe shewed him self no better then a coxcomb.

_Tread_. Beleeve mee nowe, I do not blame my frende
To fishe in trobled streames for such a pearle,
Or digge in black mowled for so ritch a myne;
But to redeeme a chast and inocent sowle
Forthe from the fierye jawes of lust and hell,
Exprest a most comended charitye.
What second bewtyes that ... frend,
That tremblinge flyes from his infectious ills
To patronise her youth and inocence
Beneathe that goode man's goodnes--

_Raph_. Alyke suffers
With her in all distresses, lyke in years,
In vertue, no way differing of our nation;
Who knowes but neare all yee too?

_Tread_. I feele somthinge
Growinge on mee, I know not howe to style,
Pitty or love, synce it hath tast of boathe.
And sinne itt weare such parity in all thinges,
Age, mindes, wrecks, bondadge, pursiutes, injuryes
Shoold nowe bee separate; the one be freede
The t'other left in durance, for the want
And pious tender of so smalle a somme.
I somw