Did pretend such things to the Captain,
To save a Burning from th' Inquisition.

_Anto._ Fetch our Horses.
[Exit _Jasper_.
I do observe this Rogue
Strangely to be amaz'd, what er'es the matter;
I do believe that this was all some Cheat.
Yet how could that be too, who could Name _Lewis_.
But I am mad to be deluded thus!
For now I think on't better; in my Passion
I hinted _Lewis_ as a proof for all;
And then this Rogue stood by--Ay, there it is--
He's a Confederate, and contriv'd all this,
To be Reveng'd, but I'le dissemble yet,
And trace his mischiefs further, then I'le kill him,
And stop his mouth from publishing my folly:
Had not this Accident so strangely happen'd,
What mischief had I done before the Morning:
I'le put him to his Tryal in the Garden;
Which if he fail in, there shall end his Life,
And he'l deserve it too, when mischiefs tend
To such a height, they must in mischief end.
He that contriv'd so many to destroy,
Will scarce be punish'd if he barely dye,
Therefore his Villany shall further swell,
When'ts at the height I'le Lanch his Soul to hell.
[Exit.

_Enter _Francisco_ and _Sebastian_._

_Sebast._ Couzen, believe me, I am loath to go.
And I could likewise wish that you were so.
Oft have I fear'd the danger when I went,
Yet dreaded more the sin then punishment.
For I consider'd, should I then be slain,
That Death would but begin an endless pain;
Then pardon me, though I could well obey
All Friendships Laws, I dare not do't this way.

_Fran._ Sure Couzen, you are sick, or lately have
Had melancholy thoughts about a Grave:
Is this _Sebastian_, he, whose ready hand
Was quick to Act all Friendship did Command?
He, who no sooner heard _Francisco_ say,
A Danger's there, but made that strait his way,
And now he's turn'd my Ghostly Father sure.

_Sebast._ I would, so I might make a Ghostly Cure.
_Francisco_, thou art sick, and so am I;
Sick at our Souls, and shou'd we chance to dye
E're our Disease was Cur'd, 'tis ten to one,
We should in an Eternal Feaver groan.

_Fran._ Come, prethee say no more, 'tis ominous,
I wonder much what 'tis shou'd make thee thus.
Come, you must go this Night: I'le tell you why,
'Twill be the last, for she's to Marry,
To Marry _Don Gerardo_! O 'tis rare,
I am Reveng'd to th' purpose.

_Sebast._ Sure you are
Turn'd Coward, or you ne're wou'd glory in
Revenge so base, this doubles all your sin.
_Gerardo_'s brave, and sure all Honour