Part 2 (1/2)

[_Within_.

I pray can you help me to the speech of the Master Cook?

_Diag_. If I open the door I'le cook some of your Calvesheads.

Peace Rogues.--again,--who is't?

_Mel_. _Melantius within. Enter Calianax to Melantius_.

_Cal_. Let him not in.

_Diag_. O my Lord I must; make room there for my Lord; is your Lady plac't?

_Mel_. Yes Sir, I thank you my Lord _Calianax_: well met, Your causless hate to me I hope is buried.

_Cal_. Yes, I do service for your Sister here, That brings my own poor Child to timeless death; She loves your friend _Amintor_, such another false-hearted Lord as you.

_Mel_. You do me wrong, A most unmanly one, and I am slow In taking vengeance, but be well advis'd.

_Cal_. It may be so: who placed the Lady there so near the presence of the King?

_Mel_. I did.

_Cal_. My Lord she must not sit there.

_Mel_. Why?

_Cal_. The place is kept for women of more worth.

_Mel_. More worth than she? it mis-becomes your Age And place to be thus womanish; forbear; What you have spoke, I am content to think The Palsey shook your tongue to.

_Cal_. Why 'tis well if I stand here to place mens wenches.

_Mel_. I shall forget this place, thy Age, my safety, and through all, cut that poor sickly week thou hast to live, away from thee.

_Cal_. Nay, I know you can fight for your Wh.o.r.e.

_Mel_. Bate the King, and be he flesh and blood, He lyes that saies it, thy mother at fifteen Was black and sinful to her.

_Diag_. Good my Lord!

_Mel_. Some G.o.d pluck threescore years from that fond man, That I may kill him, and not stain mine honour; It is the curse of Souldiers, that in peace They shall be brain'd by such ign.o.ble men, As (if the Land were troubled) would with tears And knees beg succour from 'em: would that blood (That sea of blood) that I have lost in fight, Were running in thy veins, that it might make thee Apt to say less, or able to maintain, Shouldst thou say more,--This _Rhodes_ I see is nought But a place priviledg'd to do men wrong.

_Cal_. I, you may say your pleasure.

[_Enter Amintor_.

_Amint_. What vilde injury Has stirr'd my worthy friend, who is as slow To fight with words, as he is quick of hand?

_Mel_. That heap of age which I should reverence If it were temperate: but testy years Are most contemptible.

_Amint_. Good Sir forbear.