guard, looke to't,
They have some plot in hand, and they will do't.

_Duke_. What course is readiest to prevent such mischiefe?

_Mon_. Plucke up the fulsome thistle in the prime:
Young trees bend lightly, but grow strong in time.
Were I the worthiest to advise your honour,
You should pursue him with your spredding bandes
Swifter in march then is the lightning flame,
And take him tardy whilst his plots are tame.
Now to charge on his army, questionlesse
Would drive them all into a great distresse,
If not confound them; having tane your Sonne,
You may be as kind, and doe as hee hath done;
So shall he know himself and be lesse proud.

_Valen_. The counsailes good.

_Duke_. And it shall be allowed.
You that doe love me, see the host prepar'd
To scare those traytors that our liues have scarde.
Our armie's many, but their power is few:[208]
Besides, they are traytors, all with us are true.
Sound Drums and trumpets, make the world rebound;
Hearten our friends, and all our foes confound.
[_Alarum_.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Montano, with two or three souldiers;
Vandarmas leading Fredericke bound_.

_Fred_. Base cowards, traytors! how am I surprizde,
[Bound] with these bonds? I am a Prince by birth,
And princely spirits disdaine such clogs of earth.
Let goe, you slaves.

_Mon_. First know your fathers pleasure.

_Fred_. You are too bold.

_Mon_. But you shall keepe a measure.

_Fred_. Thou blood of common Concubines, must I
Be bound by thee, and heir of _Saxony_?

_Enter Duke and Valen_.

_Duke_. It is our pleasure.

_Valen_. Have you caught him so?
Now shall you waite the mercy we will shew:
I was too base to be your father's wife.

_Duke_. But he shall sue to thee to save his life.

_Fred_. Perjurde, ungratefull, unnaturall,
Is this the pardon given in generall?

_Duke_. Wee'l talke of that hereafter; make him fast.

_Valen_. Helpe, _Vandermas_, our self will ayding be
To keepe in awe such sencelesse trechery.

_Duke_. My helpe and all to prison, there till death
Remaine in duresse.

_Fred_. Rather stop my breath,
Strangle me with these cords; prison to me
Is twenty deaths, I will have liberty.
Now as you are a father, be more kind;
You did not find me in so sterne a mind.
Are[209] you forgetful of the life I sav'd?
Shall a Duke's Sonne by treason thus be slav'd?
If you suspect my love,