full of doubts.

_Dem_. I cannot blame her,
No more: there's no trust, no faith in mankind.

_Enter_ Antigonus, Menippus, Leontius, and Souldiers.

_Ant_. Keep her up close, he must not come to see her:
You are welcome nobly now, welcome home Gentlemen;
You have done a courteous service on the Enemy
Has tyed his Faith for ever; you shall find it;
Ye are not now in's debt Son: still your sad looks?
_Leontius_, what's the matter?

_Leo_. Truth Sir, I know not.
We have been merry since we went.

_Lieu_. I feel it.

_Ant_. Come, what's the matter now? do you want mony?
Sure he has heard o'th' wench.

_Dem_. Is that a want, Sir?
I would fain speak to your Grace.

_Ant_. You may do freely.

_Dem_. And not deserve your anger?

_Ant_. That ye may too.

_Dem_. There was a Gentlewoman, and sometimes my prisoner,
Which I thought well of Sir: your Grace conceives me.

_Ant_. I do indeed, and with much grief conceive ye;
With full as much grief as your Mother bare you.
There was such a Woman: would I might as well say,
There was no such, _Demetrius._

_Dem_. She was vertuous,
And therefore not unfit my youth to love her:
She was as fair--

_Ant_. Her beauty I'le proclaim too,
To be as rich as ever raign'd in Woman;
But how she made that good, the Devil knows.

_Dem_. She was--O Heaven!

_Ant_. The Hell to all thy glories,
Swallow'd thy youth, made shipwrack of thine honour:
She was a Devil.

_Dem_. Ye are my father, Sir.

_Ant_. And since ye take a pride to shew your follies,
I'le muster 'em, and all the world shall view 'em.

_Leo_. What heat is this? the Kings eyes speak his anger.

_Ant_. Thou hast abus'd thy youth, drawn to thy fellowship
Instead of Arts and Arms, a Womans kisses,
The subtilties, and soft heats of a Harlot.

_Dem_. Good Sir, mistake her not.

_Ant_. A Witch, a Sorceress:
I tell thee but the truth; and hear _Demetrius_,
Which has so dealt upon thy bloud with charms,
Devilish and dark; so lockt up all thy vertues;
So pluckt thee back from what thou sprungst from, glorious.

_Dem_. O Heaven, that any tongue but his durst say this!
That any heart durst harbour it! Dread Father,
If for the innocent the gods allow us
To bend our knees--

_Ant_. Away, thou art bewitch'd still;
Though she be dead, her power still lives upon thee.

_Dem_. Dead? O sacred Sir: dead did you say?

_Ant_. She is dead, fool.

_Dem_. It is not possible: be not so angry,
Say she is faln under your