not sooth'd blinde dotage in the World,
Nor caper'd on the Common-wealths dishonour;
He has not peeld the rich nor flead the poore,
Nor from the heart-strings of the Commons drawne
Profit to his owne Coffers; he never brib'd
The white intents of mercy; never sold
Iustice for money, to set up his owne
And utterly undoe whole families.
Yet some such men there are that have done thus:
The mores the pitty.

_King_. To the poynt.

_Vict_. Oh, Sir,
_Bellizarius_ has his wounds emptied of blood,
Both for his Prince and Countrey: to repeat
Particulars were to do iniury
To your yet mindfull gratitude. His Life,
His liberty, 'tis that I plead for--that;
And since your enemies and his could never
Captive the one and triumph in the other,
Let not his friends--his King--commend a cruelty,
Strange to be talkt of, cursed to be acted.
My husband, oh! my husband _Bellizarius_,
For him I begge.

_King_. Lady, rise up; we will be gracious
To thy suit,--Cause _Bellizarius_
And the Bishop be brought hither instantly.
[_Exit for him_.

_Vict_. Now all the blessings due to a good King
Crowne you with lasting honours.

_King_. If thou canst
Perswade thy husband to recant his errours,
He shall not onely live, but in our favoures
Be chiefe. Wilt undertake it?

_Vict_. Undertake it, Sir,
On these conditions? You shall your selfe
Be witnesse with what instance I will urge him
To pitty his owne selfe, recant his errours.

_Anton_. So doing he will purchase many friends.

_Dam_. Life, love, and liberty.

_Vict_. But tell me, pray, Sir;
What are those errours which he must recant?

_King_. His hatred to those powers to which we bow,
On whom we all depend, he has kneel'd to them;
Let him his base Apostacy recant,
Recant his being a Christian, and recant
The love he beares to Christians.

_Vict_. If he deny
To doe all this, or any poynt of this,
Is there no mercy for him?

_King_. Couldst thou shed
A Sea of teares to drowne my resolution,
He dyes; could this fond man lay at my foote
The kingdomes of the earth, he dyes; he dyes
Were he my sonne, my father. Bid him recant,
Else all the Torments cruelty can invent
Shall fall on him.

_Vict_. No sparke of pitty?

_King_. None.

_Vict_. Well, then, but mark what paines Ile take to winne him,
To winne him home; Ile set him in a way
The Clouds shall clap to finde what went astray.

_Anton_. Doe this, and we are all his.

_King_. Doe thi