By heauen I cannot flatter: I defie
The Tongues of Soothers. But a Brauer place
In my hearts loue, hath no man then your Selfe.
Nay, taske me to my word: approue me Lord
Dow. Thou art the King of Honor:
No man so potent breathes vpon the ground,
But I will Beard him.
Enter a Messenger.
Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. What letters hast there?
I can but thanke you
Mess. These Letters come from your Father
Hot. Letters from him?
Why comes he not himselfe?
Mes. He cannot come, my Lord,
He is greeuous sicke
Hot. How? haz he the leysure to be sicke now,
In such a iustling time? Who leades his power?
Vnder whose Gouernment come they along?
Mess. His Letters beares his minde, not I his minde
Wor. I prethee tell me, doth he keepe his Bed?
Mess. He did, my Lord, foure dayes ere I set forth:
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear'd by his Physician
Wor. I would the state of time had first beene whole,
Ere he by sicknesse had beene visited:
His health was neuer better worth then now
Hotsp. Sicke now? droope now? this sicknes doth infect
The very Life-blood of our Enterprise,
'Tis catching hither, euen to our Campe.
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