to set you free
From this your voluntary banishment,
And give new being to your murd'red fame.

_Onae_. What _Aesculapius_ can doe this?

_Card_. The King--'tis from the King I come.

_Onae_. A name I hate:
Oh I am deafe now to your Embassie.

_Card_. Heare what I speake.

_Onae_. Your language, breath'd from him,
Is deaths sad doome upon a wretch condemn'd.

_Car_. Is it such poyson?

_Onae_. Yes; and, were you christall,
What the King fills you with, wud make you breake.
You should, my Lord, be like these robes you weare,
Pure as the Dye and like that reverend shape;
Nurse thoughts as full of honour, zeale and purity.
You should be the Court-Diall and direct
The King with constant motion; be ever beating
(Like to Clocke-Hammers) on his Iron heart,
To make it sound cleere and to feele remorse:
You should unlocke his soule, wake his dead conscience
Which, like a drowsie Centinell, gives leave
For sinnes vast army to beleaguer him.
His ruines will be ask'd for at your hands.

_Car_. I have rais'd up a scaffolding to save
Both him and you from falling: doe but heare me.

_Onae_. Be dumbe for ever.

_Car_. Let your feares thus dye:
By all the sacred relliques of the Church
And by my holy orders, what I minister
Is even the spirit of health.

_Onae_. I'le drinke it downe into my soule at once.

_Car_. You shall.

_Onae_. But sweare.

_Car_. What conjurations can more bind mine oath?

_Onae_. But did you sweare in earnest?

_Car_. Come, you trifle.

_Onae_. No marvell, for my hopes have bin so drown'd
I still despaire. Say on.

_Car_. The King repents.

_Onae_. Pray, that agen, my Lord.

_Car_. The King repents.

_Onae_. His wrongs to me?

_Car_. His wrongs to you: the sense
Of sinne has pierc'd his soule.

_Onae_. Blest penitence!

_Car_. 'Has turn'd his eyes[184] into his leprous bosome,
And like a King vowes execution
On all his traiterous passions.

_Onae_. God-like Justice!

_Car_. Intends in person presently to begge
Forgivenesse for his Acts of heaven and you.

_Onae_. Heaven pardon him; I shall.

_Car_. Will marry you.

_Onae_. Umph! marry me? will he turne Bigamist?
When, when?

_Car_. Before the morrow Sunne hath rode
Hal