O how learnedly could I speake now, might I have licence!

_Lady_. Pray, Sir,
Let me not be oppresd with noyse; my cause
Beares not so slender waight. For my owne life,
So many reasons forfeit it to death
That 'twere a Sinn, had I a will to live,
To plead to save it; but for this my sonn
I do beseech a hearing.

_Sir Hu_. Speake freely, lady.

_Lady_. Thus then:
Suppose the wrested rigor of your lawes
Uniustly sentenc'd any here to death,
And you enforce on some unwilling man
The present execution of your act,
You will not after cause the instrument
Of your decree, as guilty of his blood,
To suffer as a Homicide: how then
Can your impartiall Judgment
Censure my sonn for this which was my fact?
_Thurston_ the malice of my will wishd dead:
My instigation and severe comaund
Compeld him to atcheiv't, and you will graunt
Noe princes lawes retaine more active force
To ingage a subiect to performe their hests
Then natures does astring a dewtious child
To obey his parent.

_Sir Gef_. Pish, all this is nothing: there is a flat statute against
it,--let me see,--in Anno vigessimo tricessimo, Henerio octavo be it
enacted,--what followes, _Bunch_?

_Sir Hu_. Nay, good Sir, peace--
Madam, these are but wild evasions
For times protraction; for your paritie,
It cannot hold; since Nature does enforce
Noe child to obey his parent in an act
That is not good and iust.

_Lady_. Why, this seemd both
To his obedience; but relinquish that
And come to Conscience: does it not comaund
In its strict Canons to exact no more
Then blood for blood, unlesse you doe extort
Worse then an usurer. For _Thurstons_ life
I offer myne, which if it be to meane
To appease your Justice, let it satisfie
Your mercie. Spare my Sonn and I shall goe
As willingly to death as to my rest
After a painfull child birthe. Looke on him!
How fitt the subiect is to invite your pittie!
What Tyrant hand would cut this Cedar up
Ere its full groath (at which it stately head
Would give a shade to heaven), or pluck this Rose
As yet scarce blossomd?

_Sir Gef_. Hum, what says _Bunch_?

_Lady_. Mercy wilbe proud
T'infold him gently in her Ivory armes,
And, as she walkes along with him, each word
He speakes sheele greedily catch at with a kisse
From his soft lipps such as the amorous Fawnes
Enforce on the light Satyrs. Let[130] me dy
Who, like the palme, when consious that tis void
Of fruite and moysture, prostratly doe begg
A Charitable headsman.

_Sir