years; a sure one,
Where I may sit and crack no girths.

_Dua._ How miserable,
If my Mother should confirm, what I suspect now,
Beyond all humane cure were my condition!
Then I shall wish, this body had been so too.
Here comes the Lady Sir.

_Enter_ Guiomar.

_Rut._ Excellent Lady,
To shew I am a creature, bound to your service,
And only yours--

_Guio._ Keep at that distance Sir;
For if you stir--

_Rut._ I am obedient.
She has found already, I am for her turn;
With what a greedy hawks eye she beholds me!
Mark how she musters all my parts.

_Guio._ A goodly Gentleman,
Of a more manly set, I never look'd on.

_Rut._ Mark, mark her eyes still; mark but the carriage of 'em.

_Guio._ How happy am I now, since my Son fell,
He fell not by a base unnoble hand!
As that still troubled me; how far more happy
Shall my revenge be, since the Sacrifice,
I offer to his grave, shall be both worthy
A Sons untimely loss, and a Mothers sorrow!

_Rut._ Sir, I am made believe it; she is mine own,
I told you what a spell I carried with me,
All this time does she spend in contemplation
Of that unmatch'd delight: I shall be thankfull to ye;
And if you please to know my house, to use it;
To take it for your own.

_Guio._ Who waits without there?

_Enter_ Guard, _and_ Servants, _they seize upon_ Rut. _and bind him._

_Rut._ How now? what means this, Lady?

_Guio._ Bind him fast.

_Rut._ Are these the bride-laces you prepare for me?
The colours that you give?

_Dua._ Fye Gentle Lady,
This is not noble dealing.

_Guio._ Be you satisfied,
I[t] seems you are a stranger to this meaning,
You shall not be so long.

_Rut._ Do you call this wooing--Is there no end of womens persecutions?
Must I needs fool into mine own destruction?
Have I not had fair warnings, and enough too?
Still pick the Devils teeth? you are not mad Lady;
Do I come fairly, and like a Gentleman,
To offer you that honour?

_Guio._ You are deceiv'd Sir,
You come besotted, to your own destruction:
I sent not for you; what honour can ye add to me,
That brake that staff of honour, my age lean'd on?
That rob'd me of that right, made me a Mother?
Hear me thou wretched man, hear me with terrour,
And let thine own bold folly shake thy Soul,
Hear me pronounce thy death, that now hangs o're thee,
Thou desperate fool; who bad thee seek this ruine?
What mad unmanly fate, made thee discover
Thy cursed face to me again? was't not enough
To have the fair pro