he world than you.

_Eugen_. Yes, thousands of brave fellows slaves to their vices;
The Usurer to his gold, drunkards to Wine,
Adulterers to their lust.

_Clown_. Right, Sir; so in Trades: the Smith is a slave to the
Ironmonger, the itchy silk-weaver to the Silke-man, the Cloth-worker
to the Draper, the Whore to the Bawd, the Bawd to the Constable, and
the Constable to a bribe.

_Eugen_. Is it the kings will that I should be thus chain'd?

_Clown_. Yes indeed, Sir. I can tell you in some countries they are held
no small fooles that goe in Chaines.

_Eugen_. I am heavy.

_Clown_. Heavy? how can you chuse, having so much Iron upon you?

_Eugen_. Death's brother and I would have a little talk
So thou wouldst leave us.

_Clown_. With all my heart; let Deaths sister talke with you, too, and
shee will, but let not me see her, for I am charg'd to let no body come
into you. If you want any water give mee your Chamber pot; Ile fill it.
[_Exit_.

_Eugen_. No, I want none, I thanke thee.
Oh sweet affliction, thou blest booke, being written
By Divine fingers! you Chaines that binde my body
To free my soule; you Wheeles that wind me up
To an eternity of happinesse,
Mustre my holy thoughts; and, as I write,
Organ of heavenly Musicke to mine ears,
Haven to my Shipwracke, balme to my wounds,
Sunne-beames which on me comfortably shine
When Clouds of death are covering me; (so gold,
As I by thee, by fire is purified;
So showres quicken the Spring; so rough Seas
Bring Marriners home, giving them gaines and ease);
Imprisonment, gyves, famine, buffetings,
The Gibbet and the Racke; Flint stones, the Cushions
On which I kneele; a heape of Thornes and Briers,
The Pillow to my head; a nasty prison,
Able to kill mankinde even with the Smell:
All these to me are welcome. You are deaths servants;
When comes your Master to me? Now I am arm'd for him.
Strengthen me that Divinity that enlightens
The darknesse of my soule, strengthen this hand
That it may write my challenge to the world
Whom I defie; that I may on this paper
The picture draw of my confession.
Here doe I fix my Standard, here bid Battaile
To Paganisme and infidelity.

_Musicke; enter Angel_.

Mustre my holy thoughts, and, as I write,
In this brave quarrell teach me how to fight.

(_As he is writing an Angel comes and stands before
him: soft musick; he astonisht and dazeld_.)

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