we a king, if not obey'd?

_Belliz_. You are plac'd on earth but as a Substitute
To a Diviner being as subiects are to you;
And are so long a king to be obey'd
As you are iust.

_King_. Good _Bellizarius_, wherein doe I digresse?
Have I not made thee great, given thee authority
To scourge those mis-beleevers, those wild Locusts
That thus infect our Empire with their Scismes?
The World is full of _Bellizarius_ deedes.
Succeeding times will Canonize thy Acts
When they shall read what great ones thou hast done
In honour of us and our sacred gods;
For which, next unto _Iove_, they gave a Laurell
To _Bellizarius_, whose studious braine
Fram'd all these wracks and tortures for these Christians.
Hast thou not all our Treasure in thy power?
Who but your selfe commands as [us?], _Bellizarius_?
Then whence, my _Bellizarius_, comes this change?

_Belliz_. Poore King, I sorrow for thy weakned sence,
Wishing thy eye-sight cleare that Eagle-like,
As I doe now, thou might'st gaze on the Sunne,
The Sunne of brightnesse, Sunne of peace, of plenty.
Made you me great in that you made me miserable,
Thy selfe more wretched farre? in that thy hand
The Engine was to make me persecute
Those Christian soules whom I have sent to death,
For which I ever, ever shall lament?

_King_. Ha, what's this?--Within there!

_Belliz_. Nay, heare me, _Henrick_, and when thou hast heard me out
With _Bellizarius_ thinke that thou art blest
If that with me thou canst participate.

_King_. Thou art mad.

_Belliz_. No; 'tis thou art mad,
And with thy frenzie make this Kingdome franticke.
Forgive me, thou great Power in whom I trust,
Forgive me, World, and blot out all my deeds
From those black Kalends; else, when I lye dead,
My Name will ever lie in obliquie.
Is it a Sinne that can make great men good?
Is prophanation turn'd to sanctity,
Vices to vertues? if such disorder stand
Then _Bellizarius_ Acts may be held iust;
Otherwise nothing.

_King_. Some Furie hath possest my _Bellizarius_
That thus he railes. Oh, my dearest,
Call on great _Iupiter_.

_Belliz_. Alas, poore Idoll!
On him! on him that is not, unlesse made:
Had I your _Iove_ I'de tosse him in the Ayre,
Or sacrifice him to his fellow-gods
And see what he could doe to save himselfe.
You call him Thunderer, shaker of _Olympus_,
The onely and deare Father of all gods;
When silly love is shooke with every winde,
A fingers touch can hurle him from his Throne.
Is this a thing to be